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THE 


LOOKING-GLASS 


FOR  THE 


M    I    N    D; 


OR 


INTELLECTUAL  MIRROR. 

BEING 

AN  ELEGANT  COLLECTION  OF  THE  MOST  DE- 
LIGHTFUL LITTLE  STORIES,  AND 
INTERESTING  TALES, 

Chiefly  Translated  from  that  much  admired  Work 
L'AMI  DES  ENFANS. 

WM\)  elegant  Cngrattn&s  on  OTcou, 
BY  ANDERSON. 


NEW- YORK  : 
PRINTED  FOR  EVERT  DU  YCKTNCK 

BOOKSELLER  Sf  STATIONER, 

By  L.Nichols. 


CONTENTS. 

LITTLE  Adolphus 1 
Anabella's  Journey  to  Market    -  6 

The  absurdity  of  young  peoples  wishes  exposed  12 

Louisa's  tenderness  to  the  little  birds  in  winter  -  -  -  16 
The  story  of  Bertrand,  a  poor  laborer,  and  his  little  family  23 
Nancy  and  her  Canary  bird,  poor  Cherry-  29 

The  birds,  the  thorn  bushes,  and  the  sheep  -  -  -  36 
Poor  crazy  Samuel,  and  the  mischievous  boys  -  -  -  41 
Bella  and  Marian      --------45 

Little  Jack 56 

Leonora  and  Adolphus      -------67 

Flora  and  her  little  lamb    -        -        -        -        -        -        -        71 

The  fruitful  vine       --------        75 

Sir  John  Denhani,  and  his  worthy  tenant  79 

Alfred  and  Dorinda -87 

Rosina,  or  the  froward  girl  reformed  -        -        -        -        91 

Little  Anthony 95 

History  of  Jonathan  the  gardener      -        -        -        -        -        98 

The  sparrow's  nest   -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -102 

William  and  Thomas,  or  the  contrast  between  industry  and  in- 
dolence        -.- -107 

Mischief  its  own  punishment    -        -        -        -        -        -111 

Antony  and  Augustus,  or  rational  education  preferable  to  riches  1 17 
The  destructive  consequences  of  dissipation  and  luxury  -  123 
William  and  Amelia  £  -  129 

The  rival  dogs  -  •      -        - 137 

Cleopatra,  or  the  reformed  little  tyrant  -  -  -  -  142 
The  passionate  boy  -        -        -        -        -"  -        -       146 

Caroline,  or  a  lesson  to  cure  vanity  -  -  -  -  -  150 
Arthur  and  Adrian,  or  two  heads  better  than  one  -  -  158 
Madam  D'AUone  and  her  four  pupils         -        -        -        -161 

The  bird's  egg  - 166 

The  covetous  boy    - -        -175 

Dissipation  the  certain  road  to  ruin  -  -  -  <.  -  181 
Calumny  and  scandal  great  enemies  to  society  -        -        -       185 

Clarissa,  or  the  grateful  orphan 189 

Returning  good  for  evil,  the  noblest  revenge  -  -  -  ]93 
Grev  hairs  made  happy J  97 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


LITTLE  ADOLPHUS. 

IN  one  of  the  villages  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  me- 
tropolis, lived  little  Adolphus,  who  had  the  misfortun? 
to  lose  his  mother,  before  he  reached  his  eighth  year. 
Notwithstanding  his  early  age,  this  loss  made  a  strong 
impression  on  his  mind,  and  evidently  affected  the  na- 
tural gaiety  of  his  disposition.  His  aunt,  the  good 
Mrs.  Clarkson,  took  him  home  to  her  house,  in  order 
to  remove  him, from  the  scene  of  his  affliction,  and  to 
prevent  his  grief  adding  to  the  inconsolable  sorrows  of 
his  father. 

After  the  usual  time,  thev  left  off  their  mourning:  ; 
but,  though  little  Adolphus  affected  chearfulness,  yet 
his  tender  heart  still  felt  for  the  loss  of'his  mother.  His 
father,  whom  he  sometimes  visited,  could  not  avoid 
observing  how  little  Adolphus  endeavored  to  conceal 
his  grief;-  and  this  consideration  made  him  feel  the 
more  for  the  loss  of  a  wife,  who  had  given  birth  to  so 


$  LOOKING-GLASS. 

promising  a  child.  This  made  such  an  impression  on 
his  mind,  that  every  one  foresaw  it  would  bring  on  his 
final  dissolution. 

Poor  Adolphus  had  not  been  to  see  his  dear  father  for 
some  time  ;  for,  whenever  he  proposed  it  to  his  aunt, 
she  constantly  found  some  excuse  to  put  it  off.  The 
reason  was,  that  Mr.  Clarkson  being  so  ill,  she  feared 
that  seeing  him  in  that  condition  would  increase  the 
grief  of  Adolphus  too  much,  and  lay  on  his  heart  a  load 
too  heavy  for  him  to  support.  In  short,  the  loss  of  his 
wife,  and  his  uneasiness  for  his  son,  put  an  end  to  Mr. 
Clarkson' s  life  on  the  day  before  he  reached  the  fiftieth 
year  of  his  age. 

The  next  morning,  little  Adolphus  thus  addressed 
his  aunt :  *  This  is  my  dear  father's  birth-day,  I  will  go 
and  see  him,  and  wish  him  joy.*  She  endeavored  to 
persuade  him  from  it ;  but,  when  she  found  that  all  her 
endeavours  were  in  vain,  she  consented,  and  then  burst 
into  a  flood  of  tears.  The  little  youth  was  alarmed,  and 
almost  afraid  to  ask  any  questions.  At  last,  *  I  fear 
(said  he)  my  dear  papa  is  either  ill  or  dead.  Tell  me, 
my  dear  aunt,  for  I  must  and  will  know  :  I  will  sleep 
no  more  till  I  see  my  dear  father,  who  so  tenderly  loves 
me.' 

Mrs.  Clarkson  was  unable  to  speak  ;  but  when  Adol- 
phus saw  his  aunt  take  out  his  mourning  clothes,  he  was 
too  well  satisfied  of  what  had  happened.  <  My  dear 
papa  is  dead  !  (cried  he)  O  my  papa,  my  mamma ! 
both  dead!  What  will  become  of  poor  Adolphus  !'  and 
then  fainted,  when  Mrs.  Clarkson  found  it  difficult  to 
bring  him  to  his  senses. 

As  soon  as  he  was  a  little  come  to  himself,  '  Do  not 
afflict  yourself,  my  dear  child,  (said  his  aunt)  your  pa~ 


t 


LOOKING-GLASS.  3 

rents  are  both  living  in  heaven,  and  will  intercede  with 
God  to  take  care  of  you  while  on  earth.  While  he  yes- 
terday was  dying,  his  last  prayer  was  for  you,  and  his 
prayer  will  be  heard.' 

'  What,  did  my  dear  papa  die  yesterday,  while  I  was 
thinking  of  the  pleasure  I  should  this  day  have  on  seeing 
him  ?  Oh!  let  me  go  and  see  him,  since  I  cannot  now 
disturb  him,  or  make  him  unhappy  on  my  account. 
Pray,  my  dear  aunt,  let  me  go.' 

Mrs.  Clarkson  could  not  resist  his  importunities,  and 
engaged  to  go  along  with  him,  provided  he  would  pro- 
mise to  keep  himself  composed.  (  You  see  my  sorrow,  • 
(said  she)  and  how  much  I  am  grieved  for  the  loss  of  a 
brother,  who  was  good,  charitable,  and  humane,  and 
from  whose  bounty  I  received  the  greater  part  of  the 
means  of  my  livelihood .  Though  I  am  now  left  poor 
and  helpless,  yet  I  trust  in  Providence,  and  you  shall 
see  me  cry  no  more.  Let  me  intreat  you,  my  dear 
child,  to  do  the  same.'  Poor  Adolphus  promised  to  do 
as  she  would  wish  him  ;  when  Mrs.  Clarkson  took  him 
by  the  hand  and  led  him  to  the  melancholy  scene. 

As  soon  as  they  were  come  to  the  house,  Adolphus 
slipped  from  his  aunt,  and  rushing  into  the  room  where 
his  father  lay  in  his  coffin,  surrounded  by  his  weeping 
neighbors,  he  threw  himself  on  the  breathless  body  of 
his  dear  papa.  After  lying  some  little  time  in  that 
state,  without  being  able  to  speak,  he  at  last  raised  his 
little  head,  and  cried  out,  <  See  how  your  poor  Adol- 
phus cries  for  having  lost  you  !  When  mamma  died, 
you  comforted  me,  though  you  wept  yourself ;  but 
now  to  whom  am  I  to  look  for  comfort  ?  O  my  dear 
papa,  my  good  papa  !' 

By  this  time  his  aunt  got  into  the  room,  and,  with 


LOOKING-GLASS. 

the  assistance  of  the  neighbors,  forced  him  from  the 
coffin,  and  carried  him  to  a  friend's  house,  in  order  to 
keep  him  there  tiJl  his  father  should  be  buried  ;  for  his 
aunt  dreaded  the  thoughts  of  Jetting  him  attend  the 
funeral. 

The  solemn  scene  was  now  preparing,  and  the  bell 
began  to  toll,  which  Adolphus  heard,  and  every  stroke 
of  it  pierced  his  little  innocent  heart.  The  woman,  to 
whose  care  he  had  been  left,  having  stepped  into  ano- 
ther room,  he  took  that  opportunity  to  regain  his  liber- 
ty, got  out  of  doors,  and  ran  towards  the  church-yard. 
On  his  arrival  there,  he  found  the  funeral  service  finish- 
ed, and  the  grave  filling  up,  when,  on  a  sudden,  a  cry 
was  heard.  *  Let  me  buried  with  my  dear  papa.1  He 
then  jumped  into  the  grave. 

Such  a  scene  must  naturally  affect  every  one  who  saw 
it.  They  pulled  him  out  of  the  grave,  and  car: 
home,  pale  and  speechless.  For  several  days  he  refus- 
ed almost  every  kind  of  sustenance,  being  at  intervals 
subject  to  fainting  fits.  After  some  time,  however,  the 
consolations  and  advice  of  his  good  aunt  appeared  to 
have  some  weight  with  him,  and  the  tempest  in  his  lit- 
tle heart  began  to  abate. 

This  affectionate  conduct  of  Adolphus  was  the  con- 
versation for  miles  round  their  habitation,  and  at  last 
readied  the  ears  of  a  wealthy  merchant,  who  had  for- 
merly been  a  little  acquainted  with  the  deceased  Mr. 
Clarkson.  He  accordingly  went  to  see  the  goo.d  Adol- 
phus, and,  feeling  for  his  distresses,  took  him  home  with 
him,  and  treated  him  as  his  son. 

Adolphus  soon  gained  the  highest  opinion  of  the  mer- 
chant, and,  as  he  grew  up,  grew  more  and  more  in  his 
favor.     At  the  age  of  twenty,  he  conducted  himself 


LOOKING-GLASS.  5 

with  so  much  ability  and  integrity,  that  jthe  merchant 
took  him  into  partnership,  and  married  him  to  his  only 
daughter. 

Adolphus  had  always  too  great  a  soul  to  be  ungener- 
ous ;  for  even  during  his  younger  days,  he  denied  him- 
self every  kind  of  extravagance,  in  order  to  support 
his  aunt ;  and  when  he  came  into  possession  of  a  wife 
and  fortune,  he  placed  her  in  a  comfortable  station  for 
the  remainder  of  her  life.  As  for  himself,  he  every 
year,  on  his  father's  birth-day,  passed  it  in  a  retired 
room  alone,  sometimes  indulging  a  tear,  and  sometimes 
lifting  up  his  heart  to  heaven,  from  whence  he  had  re- 
ceived so  much. 

My  little  readers,  if  you  have  the  happiness  still  to 
have  parents  living,  be  thankful  to  God,  and  be  sensi- 
ble of  the  blessing  you  enjoy.  Be  cautious  how  you 
do  any  thing  to  offend  them  ;  and,  should  you  offend 
them  undesignedly,  rest  neither  night  nor  day  till  you 
have  obtained  their  forgiveness.  Reflect  on,  and  enjoy 
the  happiness  that  you  are  not,  like  poor  little  Adol- 
phus, bereft  of  your  fathers  and  mothers,  and  left  in 
the  hands,  though  of  a  good,  yet  poor  aunt. 


But  lo  !  to  give  the  unhappy  mourners  ease, 
From  pale  affliction's  eye  to  wipe  the  tear  ; 

To  bid  the  plaintive  voice  of  sorrow  cease, 
Behold  Religion's  heavenly  form  appear. 

'  Attend,  she  cries,  poor  mortal !  grieve  no  mare* 
No  more  lament  thy  dear  departed  friends, 

Their  souls  are  wafted  to  a  happier  shore, 
Where  every  sorrow,  every  trouble  ends. 

Follow  my  steps,  and  soon  you'll  meet  again, 
Will  meet  in  yonder  blissful  realms  above ; 

Forever  there  join  in  the  seraphs  strain, 
And  sing  the  wonders  of  redeeming  love/ 


LOOKING-GLA^ 


N 


ANABELLA'S  JOURNEY  TO  MARKET. 
OTI11NG  c mi  be  more  natural  and  pleasing  than 
to  see  young  children  fond  of  their  parents.     The  birds 
of  the  air 3  and  even  the  wild  inhabitants  of  the  forest, 
arid  are  beloved  by  their  young  progeny. 

Little  Arabella  was  six  years  old,  very  fond  of  her 
mamma,  and  delighted  in  following  her  every  where. 
Her  mother  being  one  day  obliged  to  go  to  market, 
wished  to  leave  her  little  daughter  at  home,  thinking 
it  would  be  too  fatiguing  for  Anabella,  and  trouble- 
some to  herself ;  but  the  child's  entreaties  to  go,  were 
so  earnest  and  pressing,  that  her  mother  could  not  with- 
stand them,  and  at  last  consented  to  her  request. 

The  cloak  and  bonnet  was  soon  on,  and*  the  little 
maid  set  off  with  her  mamma  in  high  spirits.  Such 
was  the  badness  of  the  paths  in  some  places,  that  it 
was  impossible  for  them  to  walk  hand  in  hand,  so  that 
Anabella  was  sometimes  obliged  to  trudge  on  by  her- 
self behind  her  mamma  ;  but  these  were  such  kind  of 
hardships  as  her  little  spirit  was  above  complaining  of 


LOOKING-GLASS.  7 

The  town  now  appeared  in  sight,  and  the  nearer 
they  approached  it,  the  more  the  paths  were  thronged 
with  people.  Anabella  was  often  separated  from  her 
mamma  ;  but  this  did  not  at  present  much  disturb  her, 
as  by  skipping  over  a  rut,  or  slipping  between  people  as 
they  passed,  she  soon  got  up  again  to  her  mother.  How- 
ever, the  nearer  they  approached  the  market,  the  crowd 
of  course  encreased,  which  kept  her  eyes  in  full  employ- 
ment to  spy  which  way  her  mother  went  ;  but  a  little 
chaise  drawn  by  six  dogs  having  attracted  her  atten- 
tion, she  stopped  to  look  at  them,  and  by  that  means 
lost  sight  of  her  mother,  which  soon  became  the  cause 
of  much  uneasiness  to  her. 

Here,  my  little  readers,  let  me  pause  for  a  moment 
to  give  you  this  necessary  advice.  When  you  walk 
abroad  with  your  parents  or  servants  never  look  much 
about  you,  unless  you  have  hold  of  their  hand,  or  some 
part  of  their  apparel.  And  I  hope  it  will  not  be  deem- 
ed impertinent  to  give  similar  advice  to  parents  and 
servants,  to  take  care  that  children  do  not  wander  from 
them,  since,  from  such  neglect,  many  fatal  accidents 
have  happened.     But  to  proceed — 

Little  Anabella  had  not  gazed  on  this  object  of  novel- 
ty for  more  than  a  minute,  before  she  recollected  her 
mamma,  and  turned  about  to  look  for  her  ;  but  no  mam- 
ma was  there,  and  now  the  afflictions  of  her  heart  be- 
gan. She  Ccdled  aloud,  6  Mamma;  mamma;'  but  no 
mamma  answered.  She  then  crawled  up  a  bank,  which 
afforded  her  a  view  all  around ;  but  no  mamma  was  to 
be  seen.  She  now  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  sat 
herself  down  at  the  foot  of  the  bank,  by  which  people 
were  passing  and  repassing  in  great  numbers. 

Almost  every  body  that  passed  said   something  or 


t  LOOKING-GLASS. 

other  to  her,  but  none  offered  to  help  her  to  find  her 
mother.  *  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  little 
dear,  (said  one)  that  you  cry  so  sadly  ?'  '  I  have  lost 
my  mamma  !'  said  Anabella,  as  well  as  the  grief  of 
her  heart  would  permit  her  to  speak.  Another  told 
her  never  to  mind  it,  she  would  find  her  again  by  and 
by.  Some  said, '  Do  not  cry  so,  child,  there  is  nobo- 
dy that  will  run  away  with  you/  Some  pitied  her, 
and  others  laughed  at  her  ;  but  not  one  offered  to  give 
her  any  assistance. 

Such,  my  little  pupils,  is  the  conduct  of  most  peo- 
ple. When  any  misfortune  brings  you  into  trouble, 
you  will  find  enough  ready  to  pity  you,  but  few  who 
will  give  you  any  material  assistance.  They  will  tell 
you,  what  you  then  know  yourselves,  that  you  should 
not  have  done  so  and  so  ;  they  will  be  sorry  for  you, 
and  then  take  their  leave  of  you. 

Little  Anabella,  however,  was  soon  relieved  from 
her  present  terrible  anxieties.  A  poor  old  woman  with 
eggs  and  butter  in  a  basket,  happened  to  be  that  day 
going  to  the  same  market,  whither  Anabella's  mother 
was  gone  before  her. 

Seeing  Anabella  in  so  much  distress,  still  crying  as 
if  her  little  heart  would  break,  she  went  up  to  her,  and 
asked  her,  what  was  the  cause  of  those  tears  that  fell 
from  her  little  cheeks.  She  told  her  she  had  lost  her 
mamma.  *  And  to  what  place  my  dear,  (cried  the  old 
woman)  was  your  mamma  going  when  you  lost  her  ?* 

*  She    was  going   to  the  market,'    replied    Anabella. 

*  Well,  my  sweet  girl,  (continued  the  old  woman)  I 
am  going  to  the  market  too,  and  if  you  will  go  along 
with  me,  I  make  no  doubt  but  we  shall  find  your  mo- 
ther there.     However,  I  will  take  care  of  you  till  you 


JLOOKING-GLASS.  9 

do  find  her.'     She  then  took  Anabella  by  the  hand, 
and  led  her  along  the  road. 

The  good  old  woman  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket, 
and  pulled  out  a  piece  of  nice  plum-cake,  which  she 
gave  to  Anabella,  who  thankfully  accepted  of  it ;  but 
her  little  heart  was  too  full  to  permit  her  to  think  of 
eating  at  that  time.  She  therefore  put  it  into  her  pock- 
et, saying,  that  she  would  eat  it  by  and  by,  when  she 
had  found  her  mamma,  which  she  hoped  would  be 
soon. 

As  they  walked  along,  the  good  old  woman  endea- 
vored to  amuse  Anabella  by  telling  her  pretty  stories, 
and  enquiring  of  her  what  books  she  read.  6  I  very 
well  know,  (said  the  old  woman)  that  young  children 
are  too  apt  to  be  fond  of  histories  of  haunted  houses, 
of  witches,  ghosts,  and  apparitions,  which  tend  only 
to  fill  you  with  idle  fears  and  apprehensions,  and 
make  you  afraid  even  of  your  own  shadows.'  But 
when  Anabella  told  her  that  her  books  were  all  bought 
at  the  corner  of  St.  Paul's  Church-yard,  she  seemed 
perfectly  satisfied. 

They  had  hardly  entered  the  market,  when  the  lit 
rambling  eyes  of  Anabella  caught  sight  of  her  ma 
She  shrieked  with  joy,  and,  like  an  arrow  out  of 
darted  from  the  old  woman,  and  flew  to  her  paren 
clasped  her  pretty  dear  in  her  arms,  and,  after  U 
embracing  her,  l  How  came  you,  (said  she)  m; 
angel,  to  wander  from  me  ?   I  have  been  so  fri 
as  to  be  hardly  able  to  contain  myself 

Anabella  threw  her  arms  round  the  nee 
mamma,  and  fixing  her  lips  to  her  cheeks,  kep 
her,  till  a  torrent  of  tears  gave  ease  to  her  he 
soon  as  she  was  able  to  speak,  '  My  dear  1, 


It  LOOKING-GLASS. 

(said  she)  I  stopped  to  look  at  a  pretty  little  chaise 
drawn  by  six  dogs,  and  in  the  meantime  I  lost  you.  I 
looked  for  you,  I  called  for  you,  but  I  could  neither 
see  nor  hear  you.  I  sat  down  crying  by  the  side  of  a 
bank  ;  some  as  they  passed  pitied  me,  and  others  joked 
me;  but  none  attempted  to  take  care  of  me,  till  this 
good  old  woman  led  me  by  the  hand,  and  brought  me 
here.' 

Anabella's  mother  was  very  thankful  to  the  good  old 
woman  for  her  tenderness  and  humanity  to  her  daugh- 
ter, and  not  only  bought  of  her  what  eggs  and  butter 
she  had  left,  but  even  made  her  a  small  present  besides, 
which  she  along  time  declined  accepting  of,  saying, 
she  had  done  no  more  than  what  every  good  Christian 
ought  to  do. 

Anabella  kissed  the  good  old  woman  over  and  over 
again,  and  all  the  way  home  talked  of  nothing  but  her 
kindness.     Nor  did  she  afterwards  forget    it,    as   she 
would  frequently  go  and  pay  her  a  visit,  when  she  al- 
ways took  with  her  some  tea  and  sugar,  and  a  loaf  of 
bread.  Anabella's  mother  constantly  bought  all  the  eggs 
1  butter  the  old  woman  had  to  spare,  and  paid  her  a 
price  for  them  than  she  could  have  got  at  mar- 
vino-  her,  at  the  same  time,  the  trouble  of  go- 
ther. 

s  you  see,  my  young  friends,  what  are  the  con- 
ges of  good  nature  and  humanity.  You  must  ac~ 
yourselves  early  not  only  to  feel  for  the  misfor- 
*  others,  but  to  do  every  thing  that  lies  in  your 
o  assist  them.  Whatever  may  be  your  condi- 
fe  at  present,  and  however  improbable  it  may 
you  may  ever  want,  yet  there  are  strange  vi- 
es in  this  world,  iu  which  nothing  can  be  said 


LOOKING-GLASS.  1 1 

to  be  really  certain  and  permanent.  Should  any  of 
vou  my  readers,  like  Anabella,  lose  themselves,  would 
they  not  be  happy  to  meet  with  so  good  an  old  woman 
as  she  did  ?  Though  your  stations  in  life  may  place  you 
above  receiving  any  pecuniary  reward  for  a  generous 
action,  yet  the  pleasing  sensations  of  a  good  heart,  on 
relieving  a  distressed  fellow-creature,  are  inexpressible. 

WHEN  you  a  wilder'd  trav'ller  meet, 
Guide  to  the  road  his  erring  feet ; 
Or  to  your  roof,  if  late,  invite, 
And  shield  him  from  the  damps  of  night. 
To  still  the  voice  of  anguish,  try 
To  wipe  the  tear  from  sorrow's  eye ; 
And  every  gqpd  you  can,  impart 
With  ready  hand,  and  glowing  heart  ; 
So  shall  ye  pass,  from  manhood's  stage, 
Smoothly  along  the  slope  of  age ; 
Then  from  the  pleasing  journey  rest, 
In  peaceful  sleep  belov'd  and  blest. 


12 


LOOKING-GI 


^gjggg^ii^^Ng^ggg^ 


THE  ABSURDITY  OF  YOUNG  PEOPLE'S  WISHES 
EXPOSED. 

A  HE  present  moment  of  enjoyment  is  aH  young  peo- 
ple think  of.  So  long  as  Master  Tommy  partook  of  the 
pleasure  of  sliding  on  the  ice,  and  making  snow  up  in 
various  shapes,  he  wished  it  always  to  be  winter,  to- 
tally regardless  of  either  spring,  summer,  or  autumn. 
His  father  hearing  him  one  day  make  that  wish,  desired 
him  to  write  it  down  in  the  first  leaf  of  his  pocket-book, 
which  Tommy  accordingly  did,  though  his  hand  shi- 
vered with  cold. 

The  winter  glided  away  imperceptibly,  and  the 
spring  followed  in  due  time.  Tommy  now  walked  in 
the  garden  with  his  father,  and  with  admiration  beheld 
the  rising  beauty  of  the  various  spring  flowers.  Their 
perfume  afforded,  him  the  highest  delight,  and  their 
brilliant  appearance  attracted  all  his  attention.  l  Oh, 
(said  Master  Tommy)  that  it  were  always  spring  !'  His 
fathef  desired  him  to  write  that  wish  also  in  his  pocket* 
book* 


LOOKING-GLASS.  13 

The  trees,  which  lately  were  only  budding,  were 
now  grown  into  full  leaf,  the  sure  sign  that  spring 
was  departing,  and  summer  hastening  on  apace.  Tom- 
my, one  day,  accompanied  by  his  parents,  and  two  or 
three  of  his  select  acquaintance,  went  on  a  visit  to  a 
neighboring  village.  Their  walk  was  delightful,  af- 
fording them  a  prospect  sometimes  of  corn  yet  green, 
waving  smoothly  like  a  sea  unruffled  with  the  breeze, 
and  sometimes  of  meadows  enamelled  with  a  profusion 
of  various  flowers.  The  innocent  lambs  skipped  and 
danced  about,  and  the  colts  and  fillies  pranced  around 
their  dams.  But  what  was  still  more  pleasing,-  this 
season  produced  for  Tommy  and  his  companions  a  de- 
licious feast  of  cherries,  strawberries,  and  a  variety  of 
other  fruits.  So  pleasant  a  day  afforded  them  the  sum- 
mit of  delight,  and  their  little  hearts  danced  in  their 
bosoms  with  joy. 

'  Do  you  not  think,  Tommy,  (said  his  father  to  him) 
that  summer  has  its  delights  as  well  as  winter  and 
spring  ?'  Tommy  replied,  he  wished  it  might  be  sum- 
mer all  the  year,  when  his  father  desired  him  to  enter 
that  wish  in  his  pocket-book  also. 

The  autumn  at  length  arrived,  and  all  the  family 
went  into  the  country  to  view  the  harvest.  It  happen- 
ed to  be  one  of  those  days  that  are  free  from  clouds, 
and  yet  a  gentle  westerly  wind  kept  the  air  cool  and  re- 
freshing. The  gardens  and  orchards  were  loaded  with 
fruits,  and  the  fine  plums,  pears,  and  apples,  which 
hung  on  the  trees  almost  to  the  ground,  furnished  the 
little  visitors  with  no  small  amusement  and  delight. 
There  were  also  plenty  of  grapes,  apricots,  and  peach- 
es, which  ate  the  sweeter,  as  they  had  the  pleasure  of 
gathering   them.     <  This  season    of   rich  abundance 

B 


LOOKlNG-GIiASS. 

Tonuny,  (said  his  father  to  him)  will  soon  pass  away, 

and  stern  and  cold  winter  will  succeed  it.'  Tommy 
again  wished,  that  the  present  happy  season  would  al- 
ways continue,  and  that  winter  would  not  be  too  hasty 
in  its  approaches,  but  leave  him  in  possession  of  au- 
tumn. 

Tommy's  father  desired  him  to  write  this  in  his  book 
also,  and  ordering  him  to  read  what  he  had  written, 
soon  convinced  him  how  contradictory  his  wishes  had 
been.  In  the  winter,  he  wished  it  to  be  always  winter; 
in  the  spring,  he  wished  for  a  continuance  of  that  sea- 
son ;  in  the  summer,  he  wished  it  never  to  depart ;  and 
when  autumn  came,  it  afforded  him  too  many  delicious 
fruits  to  permit  him  to  have  a  single  wish  for  the  ap- 
proach of  winter. 

6  My  dear  Tommy,  (said  his  father  to  him)  I  am  not 
displeased  with  you  for  enjoying  the  present  moment, 
and  thinking  it  best  that  can  happen  to  you  ;  but  you 
see  how  necessary  it  is  that  our  wishes  should  not  al- 
ways be  complied  with.  God  knows  bow  to  govern 
this  world  much  better  than  any  human  being  can  pre- 
tend to.  Had  you  last  winter  been  indulged  in  your 
wish,  we  should  have  had  neither  spring,  summer,  nor 
autumn  ;  the  earth  would  have  been  perpetually  cover- 
ed with  snow.  The  beasts  of  the  field,  and  the  fowls 
of  the  air,  would  either  have  been  starved  or  frozen  to 
death;  and  even  the  pleasures  of  sliding,  or  making 
images  of  snow,  would  have  soon  become  tiresome  to 
you.  It  is  a  happiness  that  we  have  it  not  in  our  pow- 
er to  regulate  the  course  of  nature  :  the  wise  and  un- 
erring .designs  of  Providence,  in  favor  of  mankind, 
would  then  most  probably  be  perverted  to  their  own 
inevitable  ruin.' 


LOOKING-GLASS.  ts 

, Behold,  fond  man  ! 

See  here  thy  pictur'd  life  :  Pass  some  few  years ; 
Thy  flow'ring  spring,  thy  summer's  ardent  strength, 
Thy  sober  autumn  fading  into  age, 
And  pale  concluding  winter  comes  at  last 

Aud  shuts  the  scene Ah  i  whither  now  are  fled, 

Those  dreams  of  greatness  ?  those  unsolid  hopes 
Of  happiness?  those  longings  after  fame  ? 
Those  restless  cares  ?  those  busy  bust'ling  days  ? 
Those  gay  spent  festive  nights?  those  varying  thought* 
Lost  between  good  and  ill,  that  shar'd  thy  life? 
All  are  now  fled  !   Religion  sole  remains 
Immortal,  never-failing  friend  of  man, 
His  guide  to  happiness  on  high. 


16 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


LOUISA'S  TENDERNESS  TO  THE  LITTLE  BIRDS  IN 
WINTER. 

XTOWEVER  long  the  winter  may  appear,  the  spring 
will  naturally  succeed  it.  A  gentle  breeze  began  to 
warm  the  air,  the  snow  gradually  vanished,  the  fields 
put  on  their  enamelled  livery,  the  flowers  shot  forth  their 
buds,  and  the  birds  began  to  send  forth  their  harmony 
from  every  bough. 

Little  Louisa  and  her  father  left  the  city,  to  partake 
of  the  pleasures  of  the  country.  Scarcely  had  the 
blackbird  and  the  thrush  began  their  early  whistle,  to 
welcome  Louisa,  than  the  weather  changed  all  on  a 
sudden ;  the  north-wind  roared  horribly  in  the  grove, 
and  the  snow  fell  in  such  abundance,  that  every  thing 
appeared  in  a  silver  white  mantle. 

Though  the  little  maid  went  to  bed  shivering  with 
cold,  and  much  disappointed  in  her  expectations,  yet 
she  thanked  God  for  having  given  her  so  comfortable  a 
shelter  from  the  inclemency  of  the  elements. 


LOOKING-GLASS.  17 

Such  a  quantity  of  snow  had  fallen  during  the  night, 
that  the  roads  were  almost  impassable  in  the  morning, 
which  was  a  matter  of  great  affliction  to  poor  Louisa  ; 
but  she  observed,  that  the  birds  were  as  dull  as  her- 
self upon  the  occasion.  Every  tree  and  hedge  being 
so  covered  with  snow,  the  poor  birds  could  get  nothing 
to  eat,  not  so  much  as  a  grain  of  corn  or  worm  was  to 
be  found. 

The  feathered  inhabitants  now  forsook  the  woods 
and  groves,  and  fled  into  the  neighborhood  of  inhabi- 
ted towns  and  villages,  to  seek  that  relief  from  man, 
which  nature  alone  would  not  then  afford  them.  In- 
credibly numerous  were  the  flight  of  sparrows,  robins, 
and  other  birds,  that  were  seen  in  the  streets  and  court- 
yards, where  their  little  beaks  and  claws  were  employ- 
ad  in  turning  over  whatever  they  thought  could  afford 
them  a  single  grain. 

A  large  company  of  these  feathered  refugees,  alight- 
ed in  the  yard  belonging  to  the  house,  in  which  Louisa 
and  her  father  then  were.  The  distress  of  the  poor 
birds  seemed  to  afflict  the  tender-hearted  maid  very 
much,  which  her  father  perceived  as  soon  as  she  enter- 
ed his  chamber.  '  What  is  it  makes  you  look  so  pen- 
sive now,  (said  her  father)  since  it  is  but  a  few  minutes 
ago  when  you  was  so  remarkably  cheerful  ?•' — <  O  my 
dear  papa,  (said  Louisa)  all  those  sweet  dear  birds,  that 
sung  so  charmingly  but  a  day  or  two  ago,  are  now 
come  into  the  yard  starving  with  hunger.  Do,  pray? 
let  me  give  them  a  little  corn  L' 

Her  papa  very  readily  granted  her  so  reasonable  a 
request,  and  away  she  ran,  accompanied  by  her  gover- 
ness, to  the  barn  on  the  other  side  of  the  yard,  which 
had  that  morning  been  cleanly  swept.     Here  she  g'tfti 

b2 


•s  LOOKING-GLASS. 

handful  or  two  of  corn,  which  she  immediately  scatter- 
ed in  different  parts  of  the  yard.  The  poor  little  birds 
fluttered  around  her,  and  soon  picked  up  what  the 
bounty  of  her  generous  hand  had  bestowed  on  them. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  pleasure  and  satisfac- 
tion, expressed  in  the  countenance  of  Louisa,  on  seeing 
herself  the  cause  of  giving  so  much  joy  to  those  little 
animals.  As  soon  as  the  birds  had  picked  up  all  the 
grains,  they  flew  to  the  house-top,  and  seemed  to  look 
down  on  Louisa  as  if  they  would  say,  <  Cannot  you 
give  us  a  little  more  ?'  She  understood  their  meaning, 
and  away  she  flew  again  to  the  barn,  and  down  they  all 
came  to  partake  of  her  new  bounty,  while  Louisa  cal- 
led to  her  papa  and  mamma  to  come  and  enjoy  with  her 
the  pleasing  sight. 

In  the  mean  time,  a  little  boy  came  into  the  yard, 
whose  heart  was  not  of  so  tender  a  nature  as  Louisa's. 
He  held  in  his  hand  a  cage  full  of  birds,  but  carried  it 
so  carelessly,  that  it  was  evident  he  cared  very  little 
for  his  poor  prisoners.  Louisa,  who  could  not  bear  to 
see  the  pretty  little  creatures  used  so  roughly,  asked 
the  boy  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  those  birds.  The 
boy  replied,  that  he  would  sell  them  if  he  could,  but  if 
he  could  not,  his  cat  should  have  a  dainty  meal  of  them, 
and  they  would  not  be  the  first  she  had  munched  alive. 

'  O  fie,  (said  Louisa)  give  them  to  your  cat !  What, 
suffer  such  innocent  things  as  those  to  be  killed  by  the 
merciless  talons  of  a  cat  !' — *  Even  so,'  said  the  boy, 
and  giving  the  cage  a  careless  swing,  that  tumbled 
the  poor  birds  one  over  another,  off  he  was  setting 
when  Louisa  called  him  back,  and  asked  him  what 
|N)e  would  have  for  his  birds.  '  I  will  sell  them,  (said 
he)  three  for  a  penny,  and  there  are  eighteen  of  their  v' 


LOOKING-GLASS.  19 

Louisa  struck  the  bargain,  and  ran  to  beg  the  money 
of  her  papa,  who  not  only  cheerfully  gave  her  the  mo- 
ney, but  allowed  her  an  empty  room  for  the  reception 
of  her  little  captives. 

The  boy,  having  thus  found  so  good  a  market  for 
his  birds,  told  all  his  companions  of  it  ;  so  that,  in  a 
few  hours,  Louisa's  yard  was  so  filled  with  little  bird 
merchants,  that  you  would  have  supposed  it  to  be  a 
bird  market.  However,  the  pretty  maiden  purchased 
all  they  brought,  and  had  them  turned  into  the  same 
room  with  those  of  her  former  purchase. 

When  night  came  Louisa  went  to  bed  with  more 
pleasure  than  she  had  felt  for  a  long  time.  {  What  a 
pleasing  reflection  it  is,  (said  she  to  herself)  to  be  thus 
capable  of  preserving  the  lives  of  so  many  innocent 
birds,  and  save  them  from  famine  and  merciless  cats  ! 
When  summer  conies,  and  I  go  into  the  woods  and 
groves,  these  pretty  little  birds  will  fly  round  me, 
and  sing  their  sweetest  notes  in  gratitude  for  my  kind 
attention  to  them.'  These  thoughts  at  last  lulled  her 
to  sleep,  but  they  accompanied  her  even  in  her  dreams; 
for  she  fancied  herself  in  one  of  the  most  delightful 
groves  she  had  ever  seen,  where  all  the  little  birds  were 
busied,  either  in  feeding  their  young,  or  in  singing,  or 
hopping  from  bough  to  bough. 

The  first  thing  Louisa  did  after  she  had  got  up  in  the 
morning,  was  to  go  and  feed  her  little  family  in  the 
room,  and  also  those  that  came  into  the  yard.  Th&ugh 
the  seed  to  feed  them  cost  her  nothing,  yet  she  recol- 
lected that  the  many  purchases  she  had  lately  made  of 
birds  must  have  almost  exhausted  her  purse;  and  if 
the,  frost  should  continue,  (said  she  to  herself)  what  will 
be<  ome  of  those  poor  birds  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to 


10  LOOKING-GLASS. 

purchase  !  Those  naughty  hoys  will  either  give  tiiem 
to  their  cats,  or  suffer  them  to  die  with  hunger.'' 

While  she  was  giving  way  to  these  sorrowful  reflec- 
tions, her  hand  was  moving  gently  into  her  pocket,  in 
order  to  bring  out  her  exhausted  purse  ;  but  judge  what 
must  be  her  surprise  and  astonishment  when,  instead 
of  pulling  out  an  empty  purse,  she  found  it  brim-full 
of  money.  She  ran  immediately  to  her  papa,  to  tell 
him  of  this  strange  circumstance,  when  he  snatched  her 
tip  in  his  arms,  tenderly  embraced  her,  and  shed  tears 
of  joy  on  her  blooming  cheeks. 

'  My  dear  child,  (said  her  papa  to  her)  you  cannot 
conceive  how  happy  you  now  make  me  !  Let  these  lit- 
tle birds  continue  to  be  the  object  of  your  relief,  and, 
be  assured,  your  purse  shall  never  be  reduced  to  empti- 
ness/ This  pleasing  news  gladdened  the  heart  of  Lou- 
isa, and  she  ran  immediately  to  fill  her  apron  with  seed, 
and  then  hastened  to  feed  her  feathered  guests.  The 
birds  came  fluttering  round  her,  and  seemed  conscious 
of  her  bounty  and  generosity. 

After  feeding  these  happy  prisoners,  she  went  down 
into  the  yard,  and  there  distributed  a  plentiful  meal  to 
the  starving  wanderers  without.  What  an  important 
trust  had  she  now  taken  on  herself  ? — nothing  less  than 
the  support  of  an  hundred  dependents  within  doors,  and 
a  still  greater  number  without!  No  wonder  that  her  dolls 
and  other  play-things  should  be  now  totally  forgotten. 

As  Louisa  was  putting  her  hand  into  the  seed -bag, 
to  take  out  of  it  the  afternoon  food  for  her  birds,  she 
found  a  paper,  on  which  was  written  these  words : 
6  The  inhabitants  of  the  air  fly  towards  thee,  O  Lord  ! 
and  thou  givest  them  their  food  ;  thou  openest  thy 
hand,  and  fillest  all  things  living  with  plenteousn^ss.' 


LOOKING-GLASS.  21 

As  she  saw  her  papa  behind  her,  she  turned  round > 
and   said,    "  I  am   therefore  now   imitating   God.' — 
'  Yes,  my  sweet  Louisa,   (said  her  father)  in  e"£fery 
good  action  we  imitate  our  Maker.     When  you  shall  be 
grown  to  maturity,  you  will  then  assist  the  nec/^^* 
part  of  the  human  race,  as  you  now  d^  xl 
the  more  good  you  do,  the  near*?*-  ~ 
the  perfections  of  O    r  ' 

Louisa 
birds  for 
melt,  and 
verdurr 
the 


22  LOOKING-GLASS. 

Louisa  hardly  ever  went  into  the  fields,  but  she  fan- 
cied that  some  of  her  little  family  seemed  to  welcome 
fiiV  approach,  either  by  hopping  before  her,  or  enter- 
toir"  »**  her  with  their  melodious  notes,  which  afforded 
>*  of  inexhaustible  pleasure. 

1  Msom  heaves  a  sigh, 
'  deep  distress  ; 


LOO&ING-GLASS. 


23 


THE  STORY  OF  BERTRAND,  A  POOR  LABORER,  AND 
HIS  LITTLE  FAMILY. 

x  HINK  yourselves  happy,  my  little  readers,  since 
none  of  you  perhaps  know  what  it  is  to  endure  hunger 
day  after  da}r,  without  being  able  to  enjoy  one  plentiful 
meal.  Confident  I  am,  that  the  following  relation  will 
not  fail  to  make  an  impression  on  your  tender  hearts. 

Bertrand  was  a  poor  laborer,  who  had  six  young 
children,  whom  he  maintained  with  the  utmost  difficul- 
ty. To  add  to  his  distresses,  an  unfavorable  season 
much  encreased  the  price  of  bread.  This  honest  la- 
borer worked  day  and  night  to  procure  subsistence  for 
his  family,  and  though  their  food  was  of  the  coarsest 
kind,  yet  even  of  that  he  could  not  procure  a  suffi- 
ciencv. 

Finding  himself  reduced  to  extremity,  he  one  day 
called  his  little  family  together,  and  with  tears  in  Ins 
eves,  and  a  heart  overflowing  with  grief,  '  My  little 
children,  (said  he  to  them)  bread  is  new  so  extravagant- 
Jv  dear,  that  I  find  all  my  efforts  to  support  you  inef- 


24  LOOKING-GLASS. 

fectual.  My  whole  days  labor  is  barely  sufficient  to 
purchase  this  piece  of  bread  which  you  sec  in  my  hand  ; 
it  must  therefore  be  divided  among  you,  and  you  must 
be  contented  with  the  little  my  labor  can  procure  you. 
Though  it  will  not  afford  each  of  you  a  plentiful  meal, 
yet  it  will  be  sufficient  to  keep  you  from  perishing 
with  hunger.'  Sorrow  and  tears  interrupted  his  words, 
and  he  could  say  no  more,  but  lifted  up  his  hands  and 
eyes  to  heaven. 

His  children  wept  in  silence,  and,  young  as  they 
were,  their  little  hearts  seemed  to  feel  more  for  their 
father  than  for  themselvres.  Bertrand  then  divided  the 
small  portion  of  bread  into  seven  equal  shares,  one  of 
which  he  kept  for  himself,  and  gave  to  the  rest  each 
their  lot.  But  one  of  them,  named  Harry,  refused  his 
share,  telling  his  father  he  could  not  eat,  pretending  to 
be  sick.  <  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  dear  child  ?' 
said  his  father,  taking  him  up  in  his  arms.  (  I  am  very 
sick,  (replied  Harry)  very  sick  indeed,  and  should  be 
glad  to  go  to  sleep.'  Bertrand  then  carried  him  to  bed, 
and  gave  him  a  tender  kiss,  wishing  him  a  good  night. 

The  next  morning,  the  honest  laborer,  overwhelmed 
with  sorrow,  went  to  a  neighboring  physician,  and  beg- 
ged of  him,  as  a  charity,  to  come  and  see  his  poor  boy. 
Though  the  physician  was  sure  of  never  being  paid  for 
his  visit,  yet  such  were  his  humanity  and  feelings,  that 
he  instantly  went  to  the  laborer's  house. 

On  his  arrival  there,  he  found  no  particular  symptoms 
of  illness,  though  the  boy  was  evidently  in  a  low  arid 
languishing  state.  The  doctor  told  him  he  would  send 
him  a  cordial  draught  ;  but  Harry  begged  he  would 
forbear  sending  him  any  thing,  as  he  could  do  him  no 
good.     The  doctor  was  a  little  angry  at  this  behavio      i 


LOOKING-GLASS.  *# 

aid  insisted  on  knowing  what  his  disorder  was,  threat- 
ening him,  if  he  did  not  tell  him  immediately,  he  would 
go  and  acquaint  his  father  with  his  obstinac}T. 

Poor  Harry  begged  the  doctor  would  say  nothing 
about  it  to  his  father,  which  still  more  encreased  the 
doctor's  wish  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  mystery.  At 
last,  poor  Harry  finding  the  doctor  resolute,  desired 
his  brothars  and  sisters  might  leave  the  room,  and  he 
would  acquaint  him  with  every  particular. 

As  soon  as  the  physician  had  sent  the  children  out  of 
the  room,  '  Alas,  Sir,  (said  little  Harry)  in  this  season 
of  scarcity,  my  poor  dear  father  cannot  earn  bread 
enough  to  feed  us.  What  little  quantity  he  can  get, 
he  divides  equally  among  us,  reserving  to  himself  the 
smallest  part.  To  see  my  brothers  and  sisters  suffer 
hunger  is  more  than  I  can  bear  ;  and,  as  I  am  the  eld- 
est, and  stronger  than  they,  I  have  therefore  not  eaten 
any  myself,  but  have  divided  my  share  among  them.  It 
is  on  this  account  that  I  pretend  to  be  sick,  and  unable 
to  eat.  I  beseech  you,  however,  to  keep  this  a  secret 
from  my  father.' 

The  physician,  wiping  away  a  tear  which  started  in- 
voluntarily from  his  eye,  asked  poor  Harry  if  he  were 
not  then  hungry.  He  acknowledged  indeed  that  he 
was  hungry ;  but  said  that  did  not  give  him  so  much 
affliction  as  to  see  the  distresses  of  his  family.  <  But 
my  good  lad  (said  the  doctor)  if  you  do  not  take  some 
nourishment  you  will  die.' — I  am  indifferent  about 
that,  (replied  Harry)  since  my  father  will  have  then  one 
nioiitb  less  to  feed,  and  I  shall  go  to  heaven,  where  I  will 
pray  to  God  to  assist  my  dear  father  and  my  little  sisters 
and  brothers.' 

What  heart  but  must  melt  with  pity  and  admiration 
C 


*6  LOOKING-GLASS. 

at  the  relation  of  such  facts  ?  The  generous  physic  m, 
taking  up  Harry  in  his  arms,  and  clasping  him  to  bis 
bosom,  <No,  my  dear  little  boy,  (said  he)  tbou  shalt 
not  die.  God  and  I  will  take  care  of  thy  little  family, 
and  return  thanks  to  God  for  having  sent  me  hither.  I 
must  leave  you  for  the  present,  but]  will  won  return.'' 

The  good  physician  hastened  home,  and  ordered  one 
of  his  servants  to  ioadhimself  with  refreshments  of  ev- 
ery kind.  He  then  hastened  to  the  relief  of  poor  Har- 
ry and  his  starving  brothers  and  sisters.  lie  made 
them  all  sit  down  at  the  table  and  eat  till  they  were  per- 
fectly satisfied.  What  could  he  a  mere  pleasing  scene, 
than  that  which  the  good  physician  then  beheld,  six- 
pretty  little  innocent  creatures  smiling  over  the  bounty 
of  their  generous  and  humane  friend  ! 

The  doctor,  on  his  departure,  desired  Harry  to  be  un- 
der no  uneasiness,  as  he  should  take  care  to  procure 
them  a  supply  of  whatever  might  be  wanting.  He 
faithfully  performed  his  promise,  and  they  had  daily 
cause  of  rejoicing  at  his  bounty  and  benevolence.  The 
doctor's  generosity  was  imitated  by  every  good  person, 
to  whom  he  related  the  affecting  scene.  From  some 
they  received  provisions,  from  some  money,  and  from 
others  clothes  and  linen.  So  that,  in  a  short  time,  this 
little  family,  which  was  but  lately  in  want  of  every 
thing,  became  possessed  of  plenty. 

Bertrand's  landlord,  who  was  a  gentleman  of  consi- 
derable fortune,  was  so  struck  with  the  tender  generosi- 
ty of  little  Harry,  that  he  sent  for  his  father,  and  pay- 
ing him  many  compliments  on  his  happiness  of  having 
such  a  son,  he  offered  to  take  Harry  under  his  own  in- 
spection, aud  bring  him  up  in  his  own  house.  This 
matter  being  agreed  on,  Bertrand's  landlord  settled  an 


LOOKING-GLASS.  2? 

annuity  on  him,  promising,  at  the  same  time,  to  provide 
for  his  other  children  as  they  grew  up.  Bertrand,  trans- 
ported with  joy,  returned  to  his  house,  and  falling  on>» 
his  knees,  offered  up  his  most  grateful  thanks  to  that 
good  God,  who  had  graciously  condescended  to  bestow 
on  him  such  a  son  ! 

Hence  you  may  learn,  my  young  readers,  how  much 
you  have  it  in  your  power  to  prove  a  blessing  to  your 
parents,  and  a  comfort  to  yourselves.  It  is  not  necessa- 
ry, that  in  order  to  do  so,  you  should  be  reduced  to  the 
necessity  that  poor  Harry  was :  for  however  exalted 
your  station  m*y  be,  you  will  always  find  opportunities 
enough  to  give  proofs  of  }-our  duty  to  your  parents, 
your  affection  for  your  brothers  and  sisters,  and  your 
humanity  and  benevolence  to  the  poor  and  needy.  Hap- 
py indeed  are  those  poor  children,  who  have  found  a 
friend  and  a  protector  when  they  were  needful  and  help* 
less  ;  but  much  happier  those,  who,  without  ever  feel 
ing  the  griping  hand  of  penury  and  want  themselves, 
have  received  the  inexpressible  delight  that  never  fails 
to  arise  from  the  pleasing  reflection  of  having  raised 
honest  poverty  to  happiness  and  plenty  ! 

IiOW  happy  is  he  bom  or  taught, 

Thai  serveth  not  another's  will ; 
Whor^e  armour  is  his  honest  thought  ; 

And  simple  truth  his  highest  skill. 
Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepare!  for  death  ; 
Not  ty'd  unto  the  world  with  care 

Of  princes'  ear,  or  vulgar  breath. 
Who  hath  his  life  from  humors  freed, 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat, 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatt'rers  feed, 

Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great. 


cs 


LOOKING-GI 


Who  envies  none  whom  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  "are  giv'n  with  prS^v  ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  : 

Who  God  dot  1  late  and  early  pray, 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend, 

And  entertains  the  harmless  clay 
With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend  ! 

The  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise  or  fear  to  fall, 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands ; 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


v 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


5'/ 


NANCY  AND  HER  CANARY  BIRD,  POOR  CHERRY. 

xjlS  Nancy  was  one  day  looking  out  of  her  window, 
a  man  happened  to  come  by,  crying,  (  Canary-birds  ; 
come  buy  my  canary  birds.'  The  man  had  a  large 
cage  upon  his  head,  in  which  the  birds  hopped  about 
from  perch  to  perch,  and  made  Nancy  quite  in  love  with 
them.  *  Will  you  buy  a  pretty  bird  or  two,  Miss  ?'  said 
the  man.  '  I  have  no  objection,  (replied  the  little  maid) 
provided  my  papa  wilt  give  me  leave,  If  you  will  stop 
a  little  while,  I  will  soon  let  you  know.'  So  away  raa 
Nancy  down  stairs  to  her  papa,  while  the  birdman  put 
do\yn  his  cage  at  the  door. 

Nancy  ran  into  her  papa's  chamber  quite  out  of 
breath,  crying,  (  O  dear  papa  ;  only  come  here  !  here 
is- a  man  in  the  street  that  has  a  large  cage  on  his  head 
with,  I  dare  say,  an  hundred  canary-birds  in  it.*-f- 
4  Well,  and  what  of  all  that  ?  (replied  her  papa)  Why 
does  that  seem  to  rejoice  you  so  much  ? '  Nancy  answer- 
ing, that  she  should  be  happy  to  buy  one  of  them,,  her 
papa  reminded  her,  that  the  bird  must  be  fed^  and 
c  2. 


oO  •       LOOKING-GLASS. 

should  it  be  neglected,  even  only  for  a  day,  it  would 
certainly  die. 

Nancy  promised,  that  she  would  never  eat  her  own 
breakfast  till  she  had  given  her  bird  his  ;  but  her  papa 
reminded  her  that  she  was  a  giddy  girl,  and  that  he 
feared  she  had  promised  to  much.  However,  there 
was  no  getting  over  her  coaxings  and  wheedlings,  so 
that  her  papa  was  at  last  obliged  to  consent  that  she 
should  buy  one. 

lie  then  took  Nancy  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  to  the 
door,  where  the  man  was  waiting  with  his  birds.  He 
chose  the  prettiest  canary-bird  in  it ;  it  was  a  male,  of  a 
fine  lively  yellow  color,  with  a  little  black  tuft  upon  his 
head.  Nancy  was  now  quite  chearful  and  happy,  and 
pulling  out  her  purse,  gave  it  to  her  father  to  pay  for 
the  bird.  But  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  bird  with- 
out a  cage,  and  Nancy  had  not  money  enough  ?  How- 
ever, upon  her  promising  that  she  would  take  great  care 
to  feed  her  bird,  her  papa  bought  her  a  fine  cage,  of 
which  he  made  her  a  present. 

As  soon  as  Nancy  had  given  her  canary-bird  posses- 
sion of  his  new  palace,  she  ran  about  the  house,  calling 
her  mamma,  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  all  the  ser- 
vants, to  come  and  see  her  pretty  canary-bird,  to  which 
she  gave  the  name  of  Cherry.  When  any  of  her  little 
friends  came  to  see  her,  the  first  thing  she  told  them 
was,  that  she  had  one  of  the  prettiest  canary-birds  in 
the  world.  *  He  is  as  yellow  as  gold,  (said  she)  and  lie 
has  a  little  black  crest  like  the  plumes  of  my  mamma's 
hat.  Come,  you  roust  go  and  see  him  !  His  name  is 
Cherry.' 

Cherry  was  as  happy  as  any  bird  need  wish  to  be,  un- 
4er  the  care  of  Nancy.     Her  first  business  ever^  mom- 


LOOKING-GLASS.  51 

ing  was  to  feed  Cherry ;  and  whenever  there  was  any 
cake  at  table,  Cherry  was  sure  to  come  in  for  a  share  of 
it.  There  was  always  some  bits  of  sugar  in  store  for 
him,  and  his  cage  was  constantly  decorated  with  the 
most  lively  herbage. 

Her  pretty  bird  was  not  ungrateful,  but  did  all  in  his 
power  to  make  Nancy  sensible  how  much  he  was  oblig- 
ed to  her.  He  soon  learned  to  distinguish  her,  and 
the  moment  he  heard  her  step  into  the  room,  he  would 
flutter  his  wings,  and  keep  up  an  incessant  chirping.  It 
is  no  wonder,  therefore,  if  Cherry  and  Nancy  became 
very  fond  of  each  other. 

At  the  expiration  of  a  week,  he  began  to  open  his 
little  throat,  and  sung  the  most  delightful  songs.  He 
would  sometimes  raise  his  notes  to  so  great  a  height,  that 
you  would  almost  think  he  must  kill  himself  with  such 
vast  exertions.  Then,  after  stopping  a  little,  he  would 
begin  again,  with  a  tone  so  sweet  and  powerful,  that  lie 
was  heard  in  every  part  of  the  house. 

Nancy  would  often  sit  for  whole  hours  by  his  cage, 
listening  to  his  melody.  Sometimes>  so  attentively 
would  she  gaze  at  him,  that  she  would  insensibly  let 
her  work  fail  out  of  her  hands  ;  and,  after  he  had  en- 
tertained her  with  his  melodious  notes,  she  would  regale 
him  with  a  tune  on  her  bird  organ,  which  he  would  en- 
deavor to  imitate. 

In  length  of  time,  however,  these  pleasures  began 
to  grow  familiar  to  his  friend  Nancy.  Her  papa,  one 
day,  presented  her  with  a  book  of  prints,  with  which 
she  was  so  much  delighted,  that  Cherry  began  to  lose 
at  least  one  half  of  her  attention.  As  usual,  he  would 
chirp  the  moment  he  saw  her,  let  her  be  at  what  dis- 
tance she  would  ;  but  Nancy  began  to  take  no  notice 


3>  L&OKING-GLASS. 

of  him,  and  almost  a  week  had  passed,  without  his  re- 
ceiving either  a  bit  of  biscuit,  or  a  fresh  supply  of  chick- 
weed.  He  repeated  the  sweetest  and  most  harmonious 
notes  that  Nancy  had  taught  him,  but  to  no  purpose. 

It  now  appeared  too  clearly,  that  new  objects  began 
to  attract  Nancy's  attention.  Her  birth-day  arrived, 
and  her  god-father  gave  her  a  large  jointed  doll,  which 
i  he  named  Columbine  :  and  this  said  Columbine  proved 
a  sad  rival  to  Cherry  ;  for,  from  morning  to  night,  the 
dressing  and  undressing  of  Miss  Columbine  engrossed 
the  whole  of  her  time.  What  with  this,  and  her  carry- 
ing her  doll  up  and  down  stairs,  and  into  every  room 
in  the  house,  it  was  happy  for  poor  Cherry  if  he  got 
f^d  by  the  evening,  and  sometimes  it  happened  that  he 
went  a  whole  day  without  feeding. 

One  day,  however,  when  Nancy's  papa,  was  at  ta- 
ble, accidental \y  casting  his  eyes  upon  the  cage,  he  saw 
poor  Cherry  lying  upon  its  breast,  and  panting  as  it 
were  for  life.  The  poor  bird's  feathers  appeared  all 
rough,  and  it  seemed  contracted  into  a  mere  lump.  Nan- 
cy's papa  went  up  close  to  it ;  but  it  was  unable  even  to 
chirp,  and  the  poor  little  creature  had  hardly  strength 
enough  to  breathe.  He  called  to  him  his  little  Nancy, 
and  asked  her  what  was  the  matter  with  her  bird.  Nan- 
cy blushed,  saying  in  a  low  voice,  '  Why,  papa,  I — 
somehow,  I  forgot ;'  and  ran  to  fetch  the  seed-box. 

Her  papa,  in  the  mean  time,  took  down  the  cage,  and 
found  poor  Cherry  had  not  a  single  seed  left,  nor  a  drop 
of  water,  c  Alas,  poor  bird,  (said  he)  you  have  got  in- 
to careless  hands.  Had  I  foreseen  this,  I  would  never 
have  bought  you.'  All  the  company  joined  in  pity  for 
tfce  poor  bird,  and  Nancy  ran  away  into  her  chamber  to. 


LOOKING-GLASS.  33 

ease  her  heart  in  tears.  However,  her  papa,  with  some 
difficulty,  brought  pretty  Cherry  to  himself  again. 

Mer  father,  the  next  day,  ordered  Cherry  to  be  made 
a  present  of  to  a  young  gentleman  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, who,  he  said,  would  tJ;e  much  better  care  of  it 
than  his  little  thoughtless  daughter  ;  but  poor  Nancy 
could  not  bear  the  idea  of  parting  -with  her  bird,  and 
most  faithfully  promised  never  more  to  neglect  him. 

Her  papa,  at  last,  gave  way  to  her  entreaties  ;  and 
permitted  her  to  keep  little  Cherry,  but  not  without  a 
severe  reprimand,  and  a  strict  injunction  to  be  more 
careful  for  the  future.  '  This  poor  little  creature, 
(said  her  papa)  is  confined  in  a  prison,  and  is  therefore 
totally  unable  to  provide  for  its  own  wants.  When- 
ever you  want  any  thing,  you  know  how  to  get  it ;  but 
this  little  b'rd  can  neither  help  himself,  nor  make  his 
wants  known  to  others.  If  ever  you  let  him  want  seed 
or  water  again,  look  to  it.' 

Nancy  burst  out  into  a  flood  of  tears,  took  her  pa- 
pa by  the  hand,  and  kissed  it  ;  but  her  heart  was  so 
full  that  she  could  not  utter  a  syllable.  Cherry  and 
Nancy  were  now  again  good  friends,  and  he  for  some- 
time wanted  for  nothing. 

About  a  month  afterwards,  her  father  and  mother 
were  obliged  to  go  a  little  way  into  the  country  on  some 
particular  business  ;  but,  before  they  set  out,  he  gave 
Nancy  strict  charge  to  take  care  of  poor  Cherry.  No 
sooner  were  her  parents  gone,  than  she  ran  to  the  cage, 
and  gave  Cherry  plenty  of  seed  and  water. 

Little  Nancy,  now  finding  herself  alone  and  at  liber- 
ty, sent  for  some  of  her  companions  to  come  and 
spend  the  day  with  her.  The  former  part  of  the  day 
they  passed  in  the  garden,  and  the  latter  in  playing  at 


34  LOOKft  \i». 

blindman's-buffand  four  corners.  She  went  to  bed  very 
much  fatigued  ;  but,  as  soon  as  slic  awoke  in  the  morn- 
ing, she  began  to  think  of  new  pleasures. 

She  went  abroad  that  day,  while  poor  Cherry  was 
obliged  to  stay  at  home  and  fast.  The  second  and 
third  day  passed  in  the  same  playful  manner  as  before  ; 
but  no  poor  Cherry  was  thought  of.  On  the  fourth  day 
her  father  and  mother  came  home,  and,  as  soon  as  they 
had  kissed  her,  her  father  enquired  after  j>oor  Cherry, 
'  He  is  very  well'  said  Nancy,  a  little  confused,  and 
then  ran  to  fetch  him  some  seed  and  water.  Alas  J 
poor  little  Cherry  was  no  more  :  he  was  lying  upon  his 
back,  with  his  wings  spread,  and  his  beak  open.  Nancy 
screamed  out,  and  Wrung  her  hands,  when  all  the  fa- 
mily ran  to  her,  and  were  witnesses  of  the  melancholy 
scene. 

1  Alas,  poor  bird,  (said  her  papa)  what  a  melancho- 
ly end  hast  thou  come  to  !  If  I  had  twisted  thy  head 
off  the  day  I  went  into  the  country,  it  would  have 
caused  you  but  a  moment's  pain  ;  but  now  you  have 
endured  all  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  thirst,  and  expir- 
ed in  extreme  agony.  However,  poor  Cherry,  you  are 
happy  in  being  out  of  the  hands  of  so  merciless  a 
guardian.' 

Nancy  was  so  shocked  and  distressed  on  the  occa- 
sion, that  she  would  have  given  all  her  little  treasure, 
and  even  all  her  playthings,  to  have  brought  Cherry 
to  life ;  but  it  was  now  too  late.  Her  papa  had  the 
bird  stuffed,  and  hung  up  to  the  cieling,  in  memory  of 
Nancy's  carelessness.  She  dared  not  even  to  lift  her 
eyes  up  to  look  at  it,  for  whenever  she  did,  it  was  sure 
to  make  her  cry.  At  last,  she  prevailed  on  her  papa  to 
have  it  removed,  but  not  till  after  many  earnest  entrea-* 


LOOKING-GLASS.  3. 

ties  and  repeated  acknowledgments  of  the  fault  she  had 
been  guilty  of.  Whenever  Nancy  was  guilty  of  inat- 
tention or  giddiness,  the  bird  was  hung  up  again  in  its 
place,  and  every  one  would  say  in  her  hearing,  4  Alas, 
poor  Cherry,  what  a  cruel  death  you  suffered  !■ 

Thus  you  see,  my  little  friends,  what  arc  the  sad 
consequences  of  inattention,  giddiness,  and  too  great  a 
fondness  for  pleasure,  which  always  make  us  forget- 
ful of  what  we  ought  carefully  to  attend  to. 

TIME  was  when  I  was  free  as  air, 
Tlie  thistle's  downy  seed  my  fare, 

My  drink  the  morning  dew  ; 
I  perch' d  at  will  on  ev'ry  spray, 
My  form  genteel,  my  plumage  gay, 

My  strains  forever  new. 

But  gawdy  plumage,  sprightly  strain, 
And  form  genteel  were  all  in  vain, 

And  of  a  transient  date  ; 
For  caught  andcag'd  and  starv'd  to  death, 
In  dying  sighs  my  little  breath 

Soon  pass'd  the  wiry  grate. 

Thanks,  little  miss,  for  all  my  woes 
And  thanks  for  this  effectual  close 

And  cure  of  ev'ry  ill ! 
More  cruelty  could  none  express ; 
And  I,  if  you  had  shewn  me  less, 

Had  been  your  pris'ner  still. 


LOOKING-GJ 


THE  BIRDS,  THE  THORN-BUSHES,  AND  THE  SHEEP, 

Mil.  STANHOPE  and  his  son  Gregory,  were  one 
evening,  in  the  month  of  May,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  a 
delightful  hill,  and  surveying  the  beautiful  works  of 
nature  that  surrounded  them.  The  reclining  sun,  now 
sinking  into  the  west,  seemed  to  clothe  every  thing 
with  a  purple  robe.  The  cheerful  song  of  a  shepherd 
called  off  their  attention  from  their  meditations  on  those 
delightful  prospects.  This  shepherd  was  driving  home 
his  fleck  from  the  adjacent  fields. 

Thorn-bushes  grew  on  each  side  of  the  road,  and 
every  sheep  that  approached  the  thorns  was  sure  to  be 
robbed  of  some  part  of  its  wool,  which  a  good  deal 
displeased  little  Gregory.  '  Only  see,  papa,  (said  he) 
how  the  sheep  are  deprived  of  their  wool  by  those 
bushes  !  You  have  often  told  me,  that  God  makes  no- 
thing in  vain  ;  but  these  briars  seem  made  only  for 
mischief:  people  should  therefore  join  to  destroy  them, 
root  and  branch.     Were  the  poor  sheep  to  come  often 


LOOKING-GLASS.  39 

tude  of  different  sorts  of  birds,  who  loaded  themselves 
with  the  plunder. 

Gregory  was  quite  astonished  at  this  sight,  and  asked 
his  papa  what  could  be  the  meaning  of  it.  '  You  by 
this  plainly  see,  (replied  Mr.  Stanhope)  that  Provi- 
dence provides  for  creatures  of  every  class,  and  fur- 
nishes them  with  all  things  necessary  for  their  conve- 
nience and  preservation.  tlere,  you  see,  the  poor  birds 
find  what  is  necessary  for  their  habitations,  wherein 
they  are  to  nurse  and  rear  their  young,  and  with  this 
they  make  a  comfortable  bed  for  themselves  and  their 
little  progeny.  The  innocent  thorn-bush,  against 
which  you  yesterday  so  loudly  exclaimed,  is  of  infinite 
service  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  air  ;  it  takes  from 
those  only  that  are  rich,  what  they  can  very  well  spare, 
in  order  to  satisfy  the  wants  of  the  pocr.  Have  you 
now  any  wish  to  cut  those  bushes  down  which  you  will 
perhaps  no  longer  consider  as  robbers  ?' 

Gregory  shook  his  head,  and  said,  he  would  not  cut 
the  bushes  down  for  the  world.  Mr.  Stanhope  applaud- 
ed his  son  for  so  saying  ;  and,  after  enjoying  the  sweets 
of  the  morning,  they  retired  home  to  breakfast,  leav- 
ing the  bushes  to  flourish  in  peace,  since  they  made  so 
generous  a  use  of  their  conquests. 

My  young  friends  will  hence  be  convinced  of  the 
impropriety  of  cherishing  too  hastily  prejudices  against 
any  persons  or  things,  since,  however  forbidding  or 
useless  they  may  at  first  sight  appear,  a  more  familiar 
acquaintance  with  them  may  discover  those  accomplish- 
ments or  perfections,  which  prejudice  at  first  obscured 
from  their  observation. 


40 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


SWEET  contemplation  to  pursue, 
Behold  a  rural  scene  in  view, 
The  bleating  herds,  the  lowing  kine, 
The  spreading  oak,  the  towVing  pine ; 
The  air,  from  noxious  vapors  free, 
Whilst  squirrels  trip  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  the  sweet  songsters  hover  round, 
Fruit,  herbs  and  flow'rs,  enrich  the  ground, 
And  each  their  various  fruits  produce, 
Some  for  delight,  and  some  for  use. 
Behold,  O  !  youth,  this  scene,  and  see 
What  nature's  God  hath  given  thee. 
With  wonder  view  his  great  designs, 
In  which  superior  wisdom  shines ; 
Revere  his  name,  admire  his  love, 
A  ad  raise  thy  thoughts  to  worlds  abov^. 


LOOKiNG-GLASS. 


iJ 


'«t*&K€&k 


POOR  CRAZY  SAMUEL,  AND  THE  MISCHIEVOUS 
BOYS. 

AN  the  city  of  Bristol  lived  a  crazy  person,  whose 
name  was  Samuel.  Whenever  he  went  out,  he  always 
put  four  or  five  wigs  on  his  head  at  once,  and  as  many 
muffs  upon  each  of  his  arms.  Though  he  had  unfortu- 
nately lost  his  senses,  yet  lie  was  not  mischievous,  un- 
less wicked  hoys  played  tricks  with  him,  and  put  him 
in  a  passion. 

Whenever  he  appeared  in  the  streets,  all  the  idle  boys 
would  surround  him,  crying,  '  Samuel !  Samuel !  how 
do  you  sell  your  wigs  and  your  muffs  !'  Some  boys 
were  of  such  mischievous  disposit'ons  as  to  throw  dirt 
and  stones  at  him.  Though  the  unfortunate  mau  ge- 
nerally bore  all  this  treatment  very  quietly,  yet  he 
would  sometimes  turn  about  in  his  own  defence,  and 
throw  among  the  rabble  that  followed  him  any  thing 
that  came  in  his  way. 

A  contest  of  this  nature  happened  one  day  near  the 
house   of  Mr.  Denton,  who,   hearing  a  noise  in  thf 


42  LOOKING-GLASS. 

street,  went  to  the  window,  and  with  much  regret  saw 
his  son  Joseph  concerned  in  the  fray.  Displeased  at 
the  sight,  he  shut  down  the  sash,  and  went  into  another 
room. 

When  they  were  at  dinner,  Mr.  Denton  asked  his 
son  who  the  man  was,  with  whom  he  and  other  boys 
in  the  street  seemed  to  be  so  pleasingly  engaged.  Jo- 
seph said,  it  was  the  crazy  man,  whom  they  called 
Samuel.  On  his  father  asking  him  what  had  occasion- 
ed  that  misfortune,  he  replied,  that  it  was  said  to  be  in 
consequence  of  the  loss  of  a  law-suit,  which  deprived 
him  of  a  large  estate. 

'  Had  this  man  been  known  to  you  (said  Mr.  Den- 
ton) at  the  time  when  he  was  cheated  of  his  estate  ;  and 
had  he  told  you,  that  he  hadjust  lost  a  large  inheritance, 
which  he  had  long  peaceably  enjoyed  ;  that  all  his  pro- 
perty was  expended  in  supporting  the  cause,  and  that 
he  had  now  neither  country  or  town-house,  in  short 
nothing  upon  the  earth  left ;  would  you  then  have 
laughed  at  this  poor  man  ?" 

Joseph  with  some  confusion  replied,  he  certainly 
should  not  be  guilty  of  so  wicked  an  action,  as  to  laugh 
at  the  misfortunes  of  any  man  ;  but  should  rather  en- 
deavor to  comfort  him. 

*  This  man,  (said  Mr.  Denton)  is  more  to  be  pitied 
now  than  he  was  then,  since  the  loss  of  his  fortune  is 
added  to  that  of  his  senses  also  ;  and  yet  you  have  this 
day  been  throwing  stones  at  this  poor  man,  and  other- 
wise insulting  him,  who  never  gave  you  any  cause.' 
Joseph  seemed  very  sorry  for  what  he  had  done,  ask- 
ed his  papa's  pardon,  and  promised  not  only  never  to 
do  the  like  again,  but  to  prevent  others,  as  much  as 
-xy  in  his  power,  committing  the  same  crime. 


LOOKING-GLASS. 

His  father  told  him,  that  as  to  his  forgiveness,  he 
freely  had  it,  but  that  there  was  another  besides  him, 
whose  forgiveness  was  more  necessary.  Little  Joseph 
thought  that  his  father  meant  poor  Samuel ;  but  Mr. 
Denton  explained  the  matter  to  him.  '  Had  Samuel 
retained  his  senses,  (said  he)  it  would  be  certainly  just 
that  you  should  ask  his  pardon  ;  but  as  his  disordered 
mind  will  not  permit  him  to  receive  any  apologies,  it 
would  be  idle  to  attempt  to  make  any.  It  is  not  Sa- 
muel, but  God,  whom  you  have  offended.  You  have 
not  shewn  compassion  to  poor  Samuel,  but,  by  your 
unmerited  insults  have  added  to  his  misfortunes.  Can 
you  think  that  God  will  be  pleased  with  such  conduct?' 

Joseph  now  plainly  perceived  whom  he  had  offended, 
and  therefore  promised  that  night  to  ask  pardon  of  God 
in  his  prayers.  He  kept  his  word,  and  not  only  for- 
bore troubling  Samuel  for  several  weeks  afterwards, 
but  endeavored  to  dissuade  all  his  companions  from 
doing  the  like. 

The  resolutions  of  young  people,  however,  are  not 
always  to  be  depended  on.  So  it  happened  with  lit- 
tle Joseph,  who,  forgetting  the  promises  he  had  made, 
one  day  happened  to  mix  with  the  rabble  of  boys,  who 
were  following  and  hooting,  and  playing  many  naugh- 
ty tricks  with  the  unfortunate  Samuel, 

The  more  he  mixed  among  them,  the  more  he  for- 
got himself,  and  at  last  became  as  bad  as  the  worst  of 
them.  Samuel's  patience,  however,  being  at  length 
tired  out  by  the  rude  behavior  of  the  wicked  boys 
that  pursued  him,  he  suddenly  turned  about,  and 
picking  up  a  large  stone,  threw  it  at  little  Joseph  with 
such  violence,  that  it  grazed  his  cheek,  and  almost  cut 
off  part  of  his  ear. 


41  LOOKING-GLASS. 

Poor  Joseph,  on  feeling  the  smart  occasioned  by  the 
blow,  and  finding  the  blood  trickling  down  his  cheek  at 
a  great  rate,  ran  home  roaring  most  terribly.  Mr. 
Denton,  however,  shewed  him  no  pity,  telling  him  that 
it  was  the  just  judgment  of  God  for  his  wickedness. 

Joseph  attempted  to  justify  himself  by  saying,  that 
he  was  not  the  only  one  who  was  guilty,  and  therefore 
'ought  not  to  be  the  only  one  that  was  punished.  Mis  fa- 
ther replied,  that,  as  he  knew  better  than  the  other 
boys,  his  crime  was  the  greater.  It  is  indeed,  but  jus- 
tice, that  a  child  who  knows  the  commands  of  God  and 
his  parents  should  be  doubly  punished,  whenever  he  so 
far  forgets  his  duty  as  to  run  headlong  into  wickedness. 

Remember  this,  my  young  readers;  and,  instead  of 
adding  to  the  afflictions  of  others,  do  whatever  you  can 
lo  alleviate  them,  and  God  will  then  undoubtedly  have 
compassion  on  you,  whenever  your  wants  and  distres- 
ses shall  require  his  assistance. 

AH  me !  how  little  knows  the  human  heart, 

The  pleasing  task  of  soft'ning  other's  woe; 
Stranger  to  joys  that  pity  can  impart. 

And  tears  sweet  sympathy  can  teach  to  (low. 

If  e'er  I've  mourn' d  my  humble,  lowly  state  ; 

If  e'er  I'vebow'd  my  knees  at  fortune's  shrine; 
If  e'er  a  wish  escap'd  me,  to  be  great, 

The  fervent  pray  r,   humar.it}  ,  was  thine. 

Be  mine  the  blush  of  modest  worth  to  spare, 

To  change  to  smiles  affliction's  rising  sigh  ; 
The  kindred  warmth  of  charity,  toshgu-e, 

Till  joy  shall  sparkle  from  the  tear  fill'd-eye. 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


45 


BELLA  AND  MARIAN. 

A  HE  sun  was  just  peeping  above  the  eastern  edge  of 
the  horizon,  to  enliven  with  his  golden  raj^s  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  mornings  of  the  spring,  when  Bella  went 
down  into  the  garden  to  taste  with  more  pleasure,  as 
she  rambled  through  those  enchanting  walks,  the  deli- 
cacies of  a  rich  cake,  of  which  she  intended  to  make 
her  first  meal. 

Her  heart  swelled  with  deliglit,  on  surveying  the 
beauties  of  the  rising  sun,  in  listening  to  the  enlivening 
notes  of  the  lark,  and  on  breathing  the  pleasing  frag- 
rance, which  the  surrounding  shrubs  afforded. 

Bella  was  so  charmed  with  this  complication  of  de- 
lights, that  her  sweet  eyes  were  bedewed  with  a  mois- 
ture, which  rested  on  her  eyelids  without  dropping  in 
tears.  Her  heart  felt  a  gentle  sensation,  and  her  mind 
was  possessed  with  emotions  of  benevolence  and  ten- 
derness. 

The  sound  of  steps  in  the  walk,  however,  all  on  a 
sudden,  interrupted  these  happy  feelings,  and  a  little 


4o  LOOKING-GLASS. 

girl  came  tripping  towards  the  same  walk,  eating  a 
piece  of  coarse  brown  bread  with  the  keenest  appe- 
tite. As  she  was  also  rambling  about  the  garden  for 
amusement,  her  eyes  wandered  here  and  there  unfixed; 
so  that  she  came  up  close  to  Bella  unexpectedly. 

As  soon  as  the  little  girl  saw  it  was  Miss  Bella,  she 
stopped  short,  seemed  confused,  and  turning  about,  ran 
away  as  fast  as  she  could  ;  but  Bella  called  to  her,  and 
asked  her  why  she  ran  away.  This  made  the  little 
girl  run  the  faster,  and  Bella  endeavored  to  pursue  her; 
but,  not  being  so  much  used  to  exercise,  she  was  scon 
left  behind.  Luckily,  as  it  had  happened,  the  little 
stranger  had  turned  up  a  path  leading  into  that  in  which 
Bella  was.  Here  they  suddenly  met,  and  Bella  caught 
her  by  the  arm,  saying,  c  Come,  I  have  you  fast  now  ; 
you  are  nry  prisoner,  and  cannot  get  away  from  me.' 

The  poor  girl  was  now  more  frightened  than  ever, 
and  struggled  hard  for  her  liberty  ;  but,  after  some 
time,  the  sweet  accents  of  Bella,  and  her  assurance  that 
she  meant  only  to  be  her  friend,  having  rather  allayed 
her  fears,  she  became  a  little  more  tractable,  and  quiet- 
ly followed  her  into  one  of  the  summer-houses. 

Miss  Bella,  having  made  the  stranger  sit  down  by 
her,  as!  ed  her  if  she  had  a  father  living,  and  what  was 
his  profession.  The  girl  told  her,  that,  thank  Gcd,  her 
father  was  living,  and  that  he  did  any  thing  for  an  ho- 
nest livelihood.  She  said  he  was  then  at  work  in  the 
garden,  and  had  brought  her  with  him  that  morning. 

Bella  then  observing,  that  the  young  stranger  had 
got  a  piece,  of  brown  bread  in  her  hand,  desired  she 
would  let  her  taste  it  :  but  she  said  that  it  so  scratched 
her  throat  on  swallowing  a  bit  of  it,  that  she  could  eat 
no  more,  and  asked  the  little  girl,  why  her  father  did 


LOOkiNG-GLASS.  47 

riot  get  better  bread  for  her.  '  Because,  (replied  the 
stranger)  he  does  not  get  so  much  money  as  your  pa- 
pa ;  and  besides  that,  there  are  four  more  of  us,  and 
we  all  eat  heartily.  Sometimes  one  wants  a  frock, 
another  a  jacket,  and  all  he  can  get  is  barely  suf- 
ficient for  us,  without  laying  out  hardly  any  thing 
upon  himself,  though  he  never  misses  a  day's  work 
while  he  has  it  to  do.' 

Upon  Bella's  asking  her  if  she  ever  eat  any  plum- 
cake,  she  said  she  did  not  even  know  what  it  was  ;  but 
she  had  no  sooner  put  a  bit  into  her  mouth,  which  Bel- 
la gave  her,  than  she  said,  she  had  never  in  her  life  tast- 
ed an}'  thing  so  nice.  She  then  asked  her  what  was  her 
name  ;  when  the  girl,  rising  and  making  her  a  low  curt- 
sey, said  it  was  Marian. 

'  Well  then,  my  good  Marian,  (said  Bella)  stop  here 
a  moment ;  I  will  go  and  ask  my  governess  for  some- 
thing for  you,  and  will  come  back  directly ;  but  be 
sure  you  do  not  go  away.'  Marian  replied,  that  she 
was  now  no  ways  afraid  of  her,  and  that  she  should 
certainly  wait  her  coming  back. 

Bella  ran  directly  to  her  governess,  and  begged  she 
would  give  her  some  current-jelly  for  a  little  girl,  who 
had  nothing  but  dry  bread  for  breakfast.  The  gover- 
ness, being  highly  pleased  with  the  good-nature  of  her 
amiable  pupil,  gave  her  some  in  a  cup,  and  a  small  roll 
also.  Bella  instantly  ran  away  with  it,  and  coming  to 
Marian,  said  she  hoped  she  had  not  made  her  wrait;  but 
begged  her  to  put  down  her  brown  bread  till  another 
time,  and  eat  what  she  had  brought  her. 

Marian,  after  tasting  the  jelly,  and  smacking  her 
lips,  said  it  was  very  nice  indeed  ;  and  asked  Bella  if 
She  ea1  su«h  every  day.  Miss  replied,  that  she  eat  those 


48  looking-c;lass. 

tilings  frequently,  and  if  she  would  come  now  and  the* 
she  would  always  give  her  some. 

They  now  became  very  familiar  together,  and  Miss 
Bella  asked  Marian  a  number  of  questions,  such  as 
whether  she  never  was  sick,  seeing  her  now  look  so 
hearty,  and  in  what  manner  she  employed  her  time. 

Marian  replied,  she  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  be 
sick  ;  and,  as  to  her  employments,  in  winter  she  went 
to  get  straw  for  the  cow,  and  dry  sticks  to  make  the  pot 
boil  ;  in  summer  she  went  to  weed  the  corn,  and  in 
harvest-time,  to  glean  and  pull  the  hops.  In  short, 
they  were  never  at  a  loss  for  work  ;  and  she  said  her 
mother  would  make  a  sad  noise,  if  any  of  her  little 
ones  should  take  it  into  their  heads  to  be  lazy. 

Miss  Bella  observing,  that  her  little  visitor  went 
barefooted,  which  much  surprized  her,  was  induced  to 
ask  her  the  reason  of  it  ;  when  Marian  replied,  that  it 
would  be  too  expensive  for  their  father  to  think  of  find- 
ing shoes  and  stockings  for  them  all,  and  therefore  none 
of  them  had  any  ;  but  they  found  no  inconveniency 
from  it,  since  time  had  so  hardened  the  bottom  of  their 
feet,  as  to  make  shoes  unnecessary. 

The  time  having  slipped  away  in  this  kind  of  chit- 
chat, Marian  told  Miss  Bella  that  she  must  be  going, 
in  order  to  gather  some  greens  for  her  cow,  who  would 
want  her  breakfast  by  eight  o'clock.  This  little  girl 
did  not  eat  up  all  her  roll  and  jelly,  but  saved  some  part 
of  it  to  carry  home  to  her^youngest  sister,  who,  she  said, 
she  was  sure  would  be  very  fond  of  it.  Bella  was  vast- 
ly pleased  to  find  Marian  was  so  tender  of  her  sister, 
and  desired  she  would  not  fail  to  come  again  at  the 
same  hour  the  next  morning.  So  after  a  mutual  good- 
bye, they  separated  for  the  present. 


LOOKING-GLASS.  49 

Miss  Bella  had  now,  for  the  first  time,  tasted  the 
pleasure  of  doing  good.  She  walked  a  little  longer  in 
the  garden,  enjoying  the  pleasing  reflection  how  happy 
she  had  made  Marian,  how  grateful  that  little  girl  had 
shewed  herself,  and  how  pleased  her  sister  would  be  to 
taste  currant-jelly,  which  she  had  never  seen  before. 

Miss  Bella  was  enjoying  the  idea, of  the  pleasure  she 
should  receive  from  her  future  bounties  to  her  new  ac- 
quaintance, when  she  recollected,  that  she  had  some 
ribbands  and  a  necklace,  which  her  mamma  had  given 
her  a  little  time  before,  but  of  which  she  now  began  to 
grow  tired.  Besides  these,  she  had  some  other  old 
things  to  give  her,  which,  though  of  no  use  to  herself, 
would  make  Marian  quite  fine. 

The  next  morning  Marian  came  into  the  garden 
again,  and  Miss  Bella  was  ready  to  receive  her,  with  a 
tolerable  good  portion  of  gingerbread.  Indeed,  this 
interview  was  continued  every  morning,  and  Miss  Bel- 
la always  carried  some  dainties  along  with  her.  When 
her  pocket  failed  her,  she  would  beg  her  mamma  to 
supply  her  with  something  out  of  the  pantry,  which 
was  always  cheerfully  complied  with, 

One  day,  however,  it  happened,  that  Bella  received 
an  answer  which  gave  her  some  uneasiness.  She  had 
been  begging  her  mamma  to  advance  her  something  on 
her  weekly  allowance,  in  order  to  buy  shoes  and  stock- 
ings for  Marian  ;  to  which  her  mamma  gave  her  a  flat 
denial,  telling  her,  that  she  wished  she  would  be  a  little 
more  sparing  to  her  favorite,  for  which  she  would  give 
her  a  reason  at  dinner-time.  Bella  was  a  little  surpriz- 
ed at  this  answer,  and  every  hour  appeared  an  age  till 
•dinner-time  arrived. 

At  length  they  sat  down  to  table,  atid  dinner  was  half 


50  LOOKING-GLASS; 

over  before  her  mamma  said  a  word  about  Marian ;  but  a 
dish  of  shrimps  being  then  served  up,  gave  her  mamma 
an  opportunity  of  beginning  the  conversation.  '  I  think 
Bella,  (said  the  lady)  this  is  your  favorite  dish.'  Bel- 
la replied  it  was,  and  could  not  help  observing,  how 
happy  she  supposed  poor  Marian  would  be  to  taste 
them,  who,  she  imagined,  hjft  never  so  much  as  seen 
any.  With  her  mamma's  leave,  she  begged  two  of  the 
smallest,  to  give  to  that  little  girl. 

Mrs.  Adams,  for  such  was  her  mamma's  name,  seem- 
ed unwilling  to  grant  her  request,  urging,  that  she  was 
afraid  she  would  do  her  favorite  more  mischief  than 
good.  '  At  present,  (said  her  mamma)  she  eats  her 
dry  brown  bread  with  an  appetite,  and  walks  barefoot- 
ed on  the  gravel  without  complaining.  Should  you 
continue  to  feed  her  with  dainties,  and  accustom  her  to 
wear  shoes  and  stockings,  what  would  she  do,  should 
she  by  any  means  lose  your  favor,  and  with  it  all  those 
indulgences  ?  She  will  then  lament  that  she  had  ever 
experienced  your  bounty. 

Miss  Bella  hastily  replied,  that  she  meant  to  be  a 
friend  to  her  all  her  life,  and  only  wished  that  her  mam- 
ma, in  order  to  enable  her  to  do  so,  would  add  a  little  to 
her  weekly  allowance,  and  she  would  manage  it  with 
all  the  frugality  possible. 

Mrs.  Adams  then  asked  her  daughter,  if  she  did  not 
know  of  any  other  children  in  distress  ;  to  which  Bella 
replied,  that  she  knew  several  besides,  and  particularly 
two  in  a  neighboring  village,  who  had  neither  father 
nor  mother,  and  who,  without  doubt,  stood  much  in 
need  of  assistance.  Her  mamma  then  reminded  her, 
that  it  was  somewhat  uncharitable  to  feed  Marian  with 
sweetmeats  and  dainties,  while    other  poor    children  ( 

1 


LOOKING-GLASS.  51 

were  starving  with  hunger.  To  this  Bella  replied,  that 
she  hoped  she  should  have  something  to  spare  for 
them  likewise  ;  but,  at  all  events,  she  loved  Marian 
best. 

However,  her  mamma  advised  her,  to  give  her  sweet 
things  seldomer,  and  instead  thereof  something  that 
would  be  of  more  use  to  her,  such  as  an  apron  or  a 
gown.  Miss  Bella  immediately  proposed  to  give  her 
one  of  her  frocks  ;  but  her  mamma  soon  made  her  sen- 
sible of  the  impropriety  of  dressing  up  a  village  girl, 
without  shoes  or  stockings,  in  a  muslin  slip.  *  Were  I 
in  your  place,  (said  her  mamma)  I  would  be  sparing  in 
my  amusements  for  some  time,  and  when  I  had  saved 
a  little  money,  I  would  lay  it  out  in  buying  whatever 
was  most  necessary  for  her.  The  stuffs  that  poor  chil- 
dren wear  are  not  very  expensive.'  Bella  followed  her 
mamma's  advice.  Marian  was  not,  indeed,  so  punctu- 
al in  her  morning  visits,  but  Bella  made  her  presents 
far  more  useful  than  sweetmeats. 

Miss  Beba,  besides  frequently  giving  Marian  an 
apron,  a  petticoat,  or  such  like,  paid  a  certain  sum  ev- 
ery month  to  the  schoolmaster  of  the  village  to  improve 
her  in  reading.  Marian  was  so  sensible  of  these  kind- 
nesses, that  she  grew  every  day  more  tenderly  fond  of 
her  kind  benefactress.  She  frequently  paid  her  a  visit, 
and  was  never  so  happy  as  when  she  could  do  any  little 
matters  to  oblige  her. 

Marian  came  one  day  to  the  garden-gate  to  wait  for 
Bella's  coming  down  to  her  ;  but  she  did  not  come,  and 
she  was  obliged  to  go  back  again  without  seeing  her. 
She  returned  two  days  successively,  but  no  Bella  ap- 
peared, which  was  a  great  affliction  to  her  little  heart, 
Kid  she  began  to  fear  she  had  inadvertently  offended 


52  LOOKING-GLASS. 

her.  <  I  have  perhaps,  (said  she  to  herself)  done  some- 
thing  to  vex  her  :  I  am  sure,  if  I  knew  I  had,  I  would 
ask  her  a  thousand  pardons,  for  I  cannot  live  without 
loving  her.  ' 

While  she  was  thus  reflecting,  one  of  Mrs.  Adams' 
maids  came  out  of  the  house,  when  poor  Marian  stop- 
ped her,  and  asked  her  where  Miss  Bella  was.  <  Miss 
Bella  !  (replied  the  woman)  she  is  ill  of  the  small-pox, 
so  ill,  indeed,  that  there  are  no  hopes  of  her  recovery  V 
Poor  Marian  was  all  distraction,  and  without  consider- 
ing what  she  did,  Hew  up  stairs,  and  burst  into  Mrs. 
Adams'  room,  imploring  on  her  knees,  that  she  might 
be  permitted  to  see  her  dear  Miss  Bella. 

Mrs.  Adams  would  have  stopped  Marian  ;  but  the 
door  being  half  open,  she  flew  to  her  bed-side  like  an 
arrow  out  of  a  bow.  Poor  Bella  was  in  a  violent  fever, 
alone,  and  very  low  spirited ;  for  all  her  companions 
had  forsaken  her.  Marian,  drowned  in  tears,  seized 
hold  of  Bella's  hand,  squeezed  it  in  hers,  and  kissed  it. 
4  Ah  !  my  dear  Miss,  (said  she)  is  it  in  this  condition  I 
find  you  !  But  you  must  not  die  ;  what  would  then  be- 
come of  me  ?  I  will  watch  over  you  and  serve  you  ! 
Shall  I,  my  dear  Miss  Bella?' 

Miss  Bella,  squeezing  Marian's  hand,  signified  to 
her,  that  staying  with  her  would  do  her  a  great  lave  r. 
And  the  little  maid,  with  Mrs.  Adams'  consent,  became 
Bella's  nurse,  which  she  performed  the  part  of  to  admi- 
ration. She  had  a  small  bed  made  up  for  her^  close  be- 
side her  little  sick  friend,  whom  she  never  left  for  a  mo- 
ment. If  the  slightest  sigh  escaped  Bella,  Marian.. was 
up  in  an  instant  to  know  what  she  wanted,  and  gave 
her,  with  her  own  hands,  all  her  medicines. 

This  grateful  girl  did  every  thing  she  could    to 


LOOKING-GLASS.  53i 

amuse  her  friend.  She  ransacked  Mrs.  Adams'  libra- 
ry for  books  that  had  pictures  in  them,  which  she 
would  shew  to  Bella  ;  and  during  the  time  that  her 
eyes  were  darkened  by  her  disorder,  which  was  for 
near  a  week,  Marian  exerted  herself  to  the  utmost  to 
divert  her.  When  Bella  grew  impatient  at  the  want 
of  sight,  Marian  told  her  stories  of  what  happened  in 
the  village  ;  and,  as  she  had  made  a  good  use  of  her 
school-master's  instructions,  she  read  whatever  she 
thought  would  be  amusing  and  diverting  to  her. 

Thus  Marian  was  not  only  her  nurse,  but  philoso- 
pher also  ;  for  she  would  sometimes  say  to  her,  (  God 
Almighty  will  have  pity  upon  you  as  you  had  pit}^  on 
me.  Will  you  let  me  sing  a  pretty  song  to  divert  you?' 
Bella,  had  only  to  make  a  sign,  and  the  little  maid 
would  sing  her  every  song  she  had  learned  from  the 
village  nymphs  and  swains,  endeavoring  by  this  means 
to  soften  the  afflictions  of  her  generous  friend. 

At  length,  she  began  to  open  her  eyes,  her  lowness 
of  spirits  left  her,  the  pock  dried  up,  and  her  appetite 
returned.  xHer  face  was  still  covered  with  red  spots  ; 
but  Marian  looked  at  her  with  more  pleasure  than  ev- 
er, from  the  consideration  of  the  danger  she  had  been 
in  of  losing  her  ;  while  the  grateful  Bella,  on  the  other 
hand,  regarded  her  with  equal  tenderness.  (  In  what 
manner,  (she  would  sometimes  say)  can  I  think  of  re- 
quiting you,  to  mv  own  satisfaction,  for  the  tender 
care  you  have  taken  of  me  r' 

Miss  Bella,  as  soon  as  she  found  herself  perfectly 

recovered,  asked    her    mamma  in   what  manner  she 

should  recompense  her  faithful  and  tender  nurse  ;  but 

Mrs,  Adams,  whose  joy  on  the  recovery  of  her  dauffh- 

b4 


54  LOOKING-GLASS. 

> 

ter  was  inexpressible,  desired  Bella  to  leave  that  mat- 
ter to  her,  as  she  likewise  was  equally  in  her  debt. 

Mrs.  Adams  gave  private  orders  to  have  a  eomplete 
suit  of  clothes  made  for  Marian,  and  Bella  desired 
that  she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  dressing  her  the 
first  time  she  was  permitted  to  go  into  the  garden. 
The  day  arrived,  and  it  was  indeed  a  day  of  rejoicing 
throughout  the  whole  family  ;  for  Bella  was  beloved 
by  all  the  servants,  as  well  as  by  all  her  acquaintance. 

This  was  a  joyful  day  to  Miss  Bella,  who  had  the 
double  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  health  restored,  and 
of  beholding  her  little  friend  dressed  out  in  her  new 
clothes.  It  is  much  easier  to  conceive  than  to  express 
the  emotions  of  these  two  tender  hearts,  when  they 
again  found  themselves  in  the  garden,  on  that  very 
spot  where  their  acquaintance  first  commenced.  They 
tenderly  embraced  each  other,  and  vowed  an  insepa- 
rable friendship. 

It  is  evidently  clear,  from  the  story  of  Bella  and 
Marian,  how  advantageous  it  is  to  be  generous  and 
humane.  Had  not  Bella  by  her  kindness  attached 
Marian  to  her  interest,  she  might  have  sunk  under  the 
severe  indisposition  ;  from  which  the  kind  attentions, 
and  unremitting  assiduities  of  Marian,  were  perhaps 
the  chief  means  of  restoring  her. 

FRIENDSHIP,  peculiar  boon  of  heav'n, 

The  noble  mind's  delight  and  pride, 
To  men  and  angels  only  giv'n, 

To  all  the  lower  world  deny'd. 

While  love,  unknown  among  the  blest, 

Parent  of  thousand  wild  desires, 
The  savage  and  the  human  breast 

Torments  alike,  with  raging  fires. 


LOOKING-GLASS.  55 

"With  bright,  but  oft  destructive  gleam, 

Alike  o'er  all  his  lightnings  fly, 
The  lambent  glories  only  beam 

Around  the  favorites  of  the  sky. 

Thy  gentle  flows  of  guiltless  joys, 

On  fools  and  villains  ne'er  descend, 
In  vain  for  thee  the  tyrant  sighs, 

And  hugs  a  flatt'rer  for  a  friend. 

Directress  of  the  brave  and  just, 

O  guide  us  through  life's  darksome  way  ! 

And  let  the  tortures  of  mistrust. 
On  selfish  bosoms  only  prey. 

Nor  shall  thine  ardors  cease  to  glow, 

When  souls  to  peaceful  climes  remove  : 
What  rais'd  our  virtue  here  below, 

Shall  aid  our  happiness  above. 


i^-^I^^^> 


56 


'LOOKING-GLASS. 


O 


LITTLE  JACK. 

NE  day,  as  Mr.  Glover  was  returning  home,  after 
taking  a  ride  over  his  estates,  and  passing  by  the  wall 
of  a  burying-ground  belonging  to  a  small  village,  he 
heard  the  sound  of  groans  and  lamentations.  As  he 
had  a  heart  that  was  ever  open  to  the  distresses  of 
others,  he  alighted  from  his  horse  to  see  from  whence 
the  voice  proceeded,  and  got  over  the  enclosure. 

On  his  entering  the  place,  he  perceived  a  grave  fresh 
filled  up,  upon  which,  at  full  length,  lay  a  child 
about  five  years  old,  who  was  crying  sadly.  Mr.  Glo- 
ver went  up  to  him,  and  tenderly  asked  him  what  he 
did  there.  '  I  am  calling  my  mother,  (said  he)  they 
laid  her  here  yesterday,  and  she  does  not  get  up.' 

Mr.  Glover  then  told  him,  that  his  poor  mother  was 
dead,  and  would  get  up  no  more.  l  I  know,  (replied 
the  poor  child)  that  they  tell  me  she  is  dead,  but  I  do 
not  believe  it.  She  was  perfectly  well  when  she  left 
me  the  other  day  with  old  Susan  our  neighbor  ;  she 
told  me  she  would  soon  come  back,  but  she  has  not 


LOOKING-GLASS.  57 

kept  her  word.  My  father  is  gone  away  too,  and  al- 
so my  little  brother  ;  and  the  other  boys  of  the  village 
will  not  play  with  me,  but  say  very  naughty  things 
about  my  father  and  mother,  which  vexes  me  more 
than  all.     O  mammy,  get  up,  get  up  ! ' 

Mr.  Glover's  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  :  he  asked 
him  where  his  father  and  brother  were  gone  to.  He 
replied,  that  he  did  not  know  where  his  father  was  ; 
and  as  to  his  little  brother,  he  was  the  day  before  tak- 
en to  another  town,  by  a  person  dressed  in  black,  just 
like  their  parson.  Mr.  Glover  then  asked  him  where 
he  lived.  '  With  our  neighbor  Susan,  (said  he)  I  am 
to  be  there  till  my  mother  comes  back,  as  she  prom- 
ised me,  I  love  my  other  mammy  Susan  very  well ! 
but  I  love  my  mammy  that  lies  here  a  great  deal  bet- 
ter. O  mother  !  mother  !  why  do  you  lie  so  long  ? 
when  will  you  get  up  ? ' 

'  My  poor  child,  (said  Mr.  Glover)  it  is  in  vain  to 
call  her,  for  she  will  awake  no  more  !' — '  Then,  (said 
the  poor  little  boy)  I'  will  lie  down  and  sleep  by  her. 
Ah  !  I  saw  her  when  they  put  her  into  a  great  chest  to 
carry  her  away.  Oh,  how  white  she  was  !  and  how 
cold  !  I  will  lie  down  here  and  sleep  by  her  ! ' 

The  tears  now  startled  from  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Glo- 
ver, for  he  could  no  longer  conceal  them,  but  stooping 
down,  took  the  child  up  in  his  arms,  and  tenderly  kis- 
sed him,  asking  him  what  was  his  came.  *  When  I 
am  a  good  boy,  they  call  me  Jackv,  and  when  I  be- 
have amiss,  they  say,  you  Jack.'  Mr.  Glover,  though 
in  tears,  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  innocence  and 
simplicity  of  this  answer,  and  begged  Jacky  to  con- 
duct him  to  the  house  of  the  g;ood  Susan. 

The  child  very  readily  consented,  and  running  be* 


58  LOOKING-GLASS. 

fore  him  as  fast  as  his  legs  Mould  carry  him,  conduct- 
ed Mr.  Glover  to  Susan's  door.  Susan  was  not  a  lit- 
tle surprised,  on  seeing  Jack  conduct  a  gentleman  in- 
to her  cottage,  and  then  running  to  her,  hid  his  little 
head  into  her  lap,  crying,  '  This  is  she  !  this  is  my 
other  mammy  !'  Mr.  Glover,  however,  did  not  keep 
her  long  in  suspense,  but  related  to  her  what  he  had 
just  seen,  and  begged  Susan  to  give  him  the  history  of 
the  parents  of  this  little  boy.  Susan  desired  the  gen- 
tleman  to  be  seated,  and  then  related  to  him  the  fol- 
lowing particulars  : 

*  The  father  of  this  poor  child  is  a  shoe-maker,  and 
his  house  is  next  to  mine.  His  wife,  though  handsome, 
was  not  a  healthy  woman  ;  but  she  was  a  careful  and 
good  housewife.  It  is  about  seven  years  since  they 
were  married,  always  lived  together  on  the  best  terms, 
and  undoubtedly  would  have  been  perfectly  happy, 
had  their  affairs  been  a  little  better. 

'  John  had  nothing  beyond  what  his  trade  produced 
him,  and  Margaret,  his  wife,  being  left  an  orphan, 
only  a  little  money  which  she  had  scraped  together  in 
the  service  of  a  worthy  neighboring  curate.  With 
this  they  bought  the  most  necessary  articles  of  house- 
hold furniture,  and  a  small  stock  of  leather  to  begin 
business  with.  However,  by  dint  of  labor  and  good 
management,  they  for  several  years  contrived  to  live 
a  little  comfortably. 

'  As  children  encreased,  so  did  their  difficulties,  and 
misfortunes  seldom  come  alone.  Poor  Margaret,  who 
had  daily  worked  in  the  fields  during  hay-time,  to 
bring  home  a  little  money  to  her  husband  at  night, 
fell  ill,  and  continued   so  all  the  harvest  and  winter. 


LOOKING-GLASS.  5f 

John's  customers  left  him  one  after  another,  fearing 
that  work  could  not  go  on  properly  in  a  sick  house. 

'  Though  Margaret  at  last  grew  better,  yet  her 
husband's  wt)rk  continued  to  decline,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  borrow  money  to  pay  the  apothecary  ; 
while  poor  Margaret  continued  so  weakly  that  nobody 
thought  it  worth  their  while  to  employ  her.  The  rent 
of  their  house,  and  the  interest  of  the  money  they 
had  borrowed,  were  heavy  loads  upon  them  ;  and 
they  were  frequently  obliged  to  endure  hunger  them- 
selves, in  order  to  give  a  morsel  of  bread  to  their  poor 
children. 

1  To  add  to  their  misfortunes,  their  hard-hearted 
landlord  threatened  toput  poor  John  in  jail,  if  he  did  not 
pay  the  two  quarters  rent  that  were  due  ;  and  though  he 
is  the  richest  man  in  the  place,  it  was  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  that  they  could  obtain  a  month's  delay.  IJe 
declared,  if  they  did  not  at  the  end  of  that  time  pay  the 
whole,  he  would  sell  their  furniture,  and  put  John  in 
prison.  Their  house  was  now  a  picture  of  melancholy 
and  patient  distress.  How  often  have  I  lamented  my 
inability  to  assist  the  distresses  of  this  honest  couple  ! 

c  I  went  myself  to  their  landlord,  and  begged  of  him, 
for  God's  sake,  to  have  some  compassion  on  these  un- 
fortunate people,  and  even  offered  to  pawn  to  him  all 
I  was  posssessed  of  in  the  world  ;  but  he  treated  me 
with  contempt,  and  told  me  I  was  as  bad  as  they  were. 
I  was  obliged,  however,  being  only  a  poor  widow,  to 
bear  the  insult  with  patience,  and  contented  myself  by 
easing  my  heart  with  a  flood  of  tears, 

'  I  advised  poor  Margaret  to  make  her  distresses 
known  to  the  worthy  clergyman,  with  whom  she  had 
so  long  lived  with  an  unblemished  character,  and  to 


60  LOOKING-GLASS. 

beg  of  him  to  advance  them  a  little  money.  Margaret 
replied,  that  she  supposed  her  husband  would  not  like 
that  proposal,  fearing  that  their  friend  might  suspect 
their  necessities  proceeded  from  mismanagement. 

e  It  is  but  a  few  days  ago  since  she  brought  me  her 
two  children,  and  begged  me  to  take  care  of  them  till 
the  evening.  Her  intention  was  to  go  to  a  village  at  a 
little  distance,  and  endeavor  to  get  some  hemp  from  the 
weaver  to  spin,  with  a  view  to  get  something  towards 
the  debt.  As  she  could  not  persuade  herself  to  wait 
upon  the  clergyman,  her  husband  had  undertaken  it, 
and  had  accordingly  set  off  on  that  business.  As  Mar- 
garet was  going,  she  clasped  her  two  children  to  her 
breast  and  kissed  them,  little  thinking  it  was  to  be  the 
last  time  she  should  ever  see  them. 

'  Soon  after  she  had  gone,  I  heard  a  noise  in  her 
house,  but  supposed  it  might  be  only  the  flapping  of 
the  door.  However,  the  evening  came  on,  and  my 
neighbor  did  not  come  to  fetch  her  children  as  usual.  I 
therefore  determined  to  go  to  her  house,  and  see  if  she 
was  come  home.  I  found  the  door  open,  and  went  in  ; 
but  how  shall  I  express  my  horror  and  astonishment, 
when  I  found  poor  Margaret  lying  dead  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  ! 

'  After  trying  in  vain  to  recover  her,  I  fetched  the 
surgeon,  who  shook  his  head,  and  said  all  was  over. 
The  cornor's  inquest  brought  in  their  verdict,  Acciden- 
tal Death  ;  but  as  her  husband  was  missing,  ill-natured 
people  raised  suspicious  reports.  Her  death,  however, 
was  easily  to  be  accounted  for  :  she  had  returned  to  her 
house,  to  go  up  to  the  loft  for  a  bag  to  hold  her  hemp, 
and,  as  her  eyes  were  still  dimmed  with  tears,  she  had 
missed  her  step  in  coming  down,  and  fallen  from  the 


LOOKING-GLASS.  $1 

top  of  the  stairs,  with  her  head  foremost,  on  the  ground. 
The  bag  that  laid  by  her  side  shewed  this  to  have  been 
the  case. 

*  I  made  an  offer  to  the  parish  officers  to  keep  the 
two  children  myself,  not  doubting,  but  that  the  good- 
ness of  God,  even  a  poor  widow  as  I  was,  would  enable 
me  to  support  them.  The  worthy  curate  came  yester- 
day to  see  the  unfortunate  Margaret,  and  great  indeed 
was  his  affliction,  when  I  related  to  him  what  I  have 
been  now  telling  you.  I  then  told  him,  that  John  was 
gone  to  him  ;  but  I  was  much  surprised,  when  he  de- 
clared he  had  seen  nothing  of  him.  The  two  children 
came  up  to  him,  and  little  Jack  asked  him,  if  he  could 
not  awake  his  mother,  who  had  been  a  long  time  asleep* 
This  brought  tears  into  the  eyes  of  the  good  curate, 
who  proposed  to  take  the  two  children  home  to  his  own 
house,  and  bring  them  up  under  his  care  ;  but,  as  I 
could  not  consent  to  part  with  both  these  innocents,  it 
was  at  last  agreed,  that  he  should  take  the  younger  3 
and  leave  me  the  elder. 

6  He  asked  little  Jack,  if  he  should  not  like  to  go 
with  him.  '  What,  where  my  mother  is  ?  (said  Jack) 
oh  !  yes,  with  all  my  heart !-— c  No,  my  little  man,  (re- 
plied the  curate)  I  do  not  mean  there,  but  to  my  hand- 
some house  and  garden.' — <  No,  no,  (answered  Jack) 
I  will  stay  here  with  Susan,  and  every  day  go  to  where 
my  mother  is  ;  for  I  would  rather  go  there  than  to  your 
handsome  garden.* 

'  This  worthy  curate  did  not  chuse  to  vex  the  child 
more,  who  went  and  hid  himself  behind  my  bed  cur- 
tains. He  told  me  he  would  send  his  man  for  the 
younger,  who  would  be  more  trouble  to  me  than  the 


q  LOOKING-GLASS. 

elder  child,  and  before  he  went,  left  me  some  money 
towards  the  support  of  this. 

1  This,  Sir,  is  the  whole  of  this  unfortunate  busi- 
ness. What  makes  me  exceedingly  uneasy  at  present 
is,  that  John  does  not  return,  and  that  it  is  reported  in 
the  parish,  that  he  has  connected  himself  with  a  gang 
of  smugglers,  and  that  his  wife  put  an  end  to  her  life 
through  grief.  These  stories  have  obtained  such  cre- 
dit in  the  village,  that  even  the  children  have  got  it ; 
and  whenever  poor  Jack  attempts  to  mix  with  them, 
they  drive  him  away  as  though  he  were  infectious. 
Hence,  the  poor  little  fellow  is  quite  dull,  and  now  ne- 
ver goes  out  but  to  pay  a  sad  visit  to  his  mother's 
grave.' 

Mr.  Glover,  who  had  silently  listened  to  this  melan- 
choly tale,  was  deeply  affected  by  it.  Little  Jack  was 
now  got  close  up  to  Susan,  he  looked  at  her  with  fond- 
ness, and  often  called  her  his  mother.  Mr.  Glover  at 
length  broke  silence,  and  told  Susan  she  was  a  worthy 
woman,  and  that  God  would  not  fail  to  reward  her  for 
her  generosity  towards  this  unfortunate  family. 

'  Ah  !  (said  Susan)  I  am  happy  in  what  I  have  done, 
and  I  wish  I  could  have  done  more  ;  but  my  only  pos- 
session consists  in  my  cottage,  a  little  garden,  in  which 
I  have  a  few  greens,  and  what  I  can  earn  by  the  labor 
of  my  hands.  Yet  for  these  eight  3-ears  that  I  have 
been  a  widow,  God  has  not  sufTered  me  to  want,  and  I 
trust  he  never  will.' 

Mr.  Glover  reminded  her,  that  keeping  this  little 
boy  must  be  very  inconvenient  to  her,  and  that  she 
would  find  it  difficult  to  supply  him  with  clothes.  She 
answered,  '  I  leave  the  care  of  that  to  him,  who  clothes 
the  fields  with  grass,  and  the  trees  with  leaves.    He  has 


LOOKING-GLASS.  6J 

given  me  fingers  to  sew  and  spin,  and  they  shall  work 
to  clothe  my  poor  little  orphan.  I  will  never  part  with 
him.' 

Mr.  Glover  was  astonished  at  this  good  woman's  re- 
solution. '  I  must  not  suffer  you  alone  (said  he)  to 
have  all  the  honor  of  befriending  this  poor  orphan, 
since  God  has  bestowed  on  me  those  blessings  of  afflu- 
ence whicli  you  do  not  enjoy.  Permit  me  to  take  care 
of  the  education  of  this  sweet  $>oy  ;  and,  since  I  find 
you  cannot  live  separate,  I  will  take  you  both  home 
with  me,  and  provide  for  you.  Sell  your  cottage  and 
garden,  and  make  my  house  your  own,  where  you  may 
spend  the  remainder  of  your  life  amidst  peace  and 
plenty.' 

Susan  gave  Mr.  Glover  a  most  affectionate  look,  but 
begged  he  would  excuse  her  accepting  his  offer,  as  she 
jras  fond  of  the  spot  on  which  she  was  born,  and  had 
lived  in  so  long.  Besides,  she  added,  she  could  not  suit 
herself  to  the  bustle  of  a  great  house,  and  should  soon 
grow  sick,  were  she  to  live  upOn  dainties  in  idleness. 
*  If  you  will  please  (continued  Susan)  now  and  then 
to  send  him  a  small  matter  to  pay  for  his  schooling, 
and  to  supply  him  tools  when  he  shall  take  to  business, 
God  will  not  fail  to  reward  you  for  your  bounty.  As 
I  have  no  child,  he  shall  be  as  one  to  me,  and  whatever 
I  possess  shall  be  his  at  my  death.' 

Mr.  Glover,  finding  she  did  not  chuse  to  quit  her  ha- 
bitation, told  her,  he  should  every  month  send  her  what 
would  be  sufficient  for  her  support,  and  that  he  would 
sometimes  come  and  see  them  himself.  Susan  lifted  up 
her  hands  to  heaven,  and  bid  Jackey  go  and  ask  the 
gentleman's  blessing,  which  he  did.  He  then  threw 
down  his  purse  on  the  table,  bid  them  a  farewell,  and 


64  LOOKING-GLASS. 

mounting  his  horse,  took  the  road  that  led  to  the  parish, 
in  which  the  worthy  curate  Jived. 

On  Mr.  Glover's  arrival  there,  he  found  the  worthy 
curate  reading  a  letter,  on  which  he  had  shed  some  tears. 
He  explained  the  cause  of  his  visit  to  this  worthy  di- 
vine, and  asked  him,  if  he  knew  what  was  become  of 
the  father  of  the  two  little  unfortunate  children.  The 
curate  replied,  that  it  was  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
since  he  received  a  le#ter  from  him  to  his  wife.  '  It 
was  (said  the  curate)  inclosed  in  one  to  me,  and  con- 
tains a  small  draft  for  the  use  of  his  wife  ;  he  requests 
me  to  deliver  it  to  her,  and  to  console  her  for  his  ab- 
sence. As  she  is  dead,  I  have  opened  the  letter,  and 
here  it  is :  be  so  kind  as  to  read  it.'  Mr.  Glover  took 
the  letter,  the  particulars  of  which  were  as  follow  : 

He  hoped  his  wife  would  not  give  herself  any  un- 
easiness on  account  of  his  absence.  As  he  was  going 
to  the  clergyman's  house,  he  began  to  think,  that  it 
could  be  of  no  use  to  go  thus  a  begging,  and,  if  lie 
should  borrow  money,  he  was  not  sure  he  should  be  able 
to  pay  it,  which  he  thought  would  be  as  bad  as  thiev- 
ing. At  this  instant  a  thought  struck  into  his  head, 
that  he  was  young  and  hearty,  stout  and  able-bodied, 
and  therefore  could  see  no  harm  if  he  entered  on 
board  a  man  of  war  for  a  few  years,  where  he  might 
stand  a  chance  of  getting  a  fortune  for  his  wife  and 
children,  at  least  get  enough  to  pay  all  his  debts. 
While  he  was  thinking  of  this  matter,  a  press-gang 
came  up,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  enter,  telling  him, 
they  would  give  him  five  pounds  bounty.  The  thought 
of  receiving  five  pounds,  fixed  his  determination  at 
once,  and  he  accordingly  entered,  received  the  money, 
and  sent  every  farthing  of  it  to  his  wife,  with  his  love 


LOOKING-GLASS.  65 

and  blessing,  and  hoping  they  would  all  join  in  their 
prayers  to  God  for  him.  He  hoped  the  war  would 
soon  be  over,  and  that  he  should  then  return  with  inex- 
pressible joy  to  his  dear  wife. 

Mr.  Glover's  eyes  swimmed  with  tears  all  the  time  he 
was  reading  the  letter.  When  he  had  finished  it,  '  this 
man,  (said  he)  may  indeed  justly  be  called  a  good  hus- 
band, a  tender  father,  and  an  honest  man.  There  is  an 
expressive  pleasure  in  being  a  friend  to  such  characters 
as  these.  I  will  pay  John's  debts,  and  enable  him  to 
take  up  his  trade  again.  Let  his  money  be  kept  for  the 
children,  to  be  divided  between  them,  as  soon  as  they 
shall  be  at  an  age  to  know  how  to  make  use  of  it^-and 
I  will  add  something  to  this  sacred  deposit.' 

So  greatly  was  the  worthy  curate  affected,  that  he 
could  make  no  reply,  and  Mr.  Glover  perfectly  under- 
standing the  cause  of  his  silence,  squeezed  him  by  the 
hand,  and  took  his  leave ;  but  he  completely  accomplished 
all  his  designs  in  favor  of  John,  who  at  length  returned, 
and  enjoyed  an  easiness  of  circumstances  beyond  any 
thing  he  had  before  experienced. 

Nothing  now  disturbed  John's  felicity,  but  the  sor- 
rowful reflection  of  having  lost  his  dear  Margaret  ;  she 
had  experienced  part  of  his  misfortunes,  but  had  not 
lived  to  share  in  his  felicity  ;  and  John's  only  consola- 
tion is  perpetually  to  talk  about  her  to  Susan,  whom  he 
looks'  upon  as  a  sister  to  him,  and  as  a  mother  to  his 
children.  Little  Jack  frequently  visits  his  mother's 
grave  ;  and  has  made  so  good  a  use  of  Mr.  Glover's 
generosity  in  improving  himself  that  this  excellent  gen- 
tleman intends  placing  him  in  a  very  desirable  situa- 
tion. John's  younger  son  has  likewise  a  share  in  his 
favors  ;  and  whenever  Mr.  Glover's  mind  is  oppressed 

F2 


06  LOOKING-GLASS. 

a  visit  to  this  spot,  where  sueh  an  affecting  scene  pas- 
sed, and  where  he  has  been  enabled  to  do  so  much  good, 
never  fails  to  raise  his  spirits. 

My  readers  will  from  hence  learn,  that  God  always 
assists  those  who  put  their  trust  in  him.  It  is  on  him 
we  must  rely  on  every  occasion,  and  he  will  not  desert 
us,  provided  we  ourselves  also  try  to  surmount  difficul- 
ties by  patience  and  industry. 

HAIL,  lovely  pow'r  !  whose  bosom  heaves  a  sigh. 
When  fancy  paints  the  scene  of  deep  distress  ; 

Whose  tears  spontaneous  chrystalize  the  eye, 
When  rigid  fate  denies  the  pow'r  to  bless. 

Not  all  the  sweets  Arabia's  gales  convey 

From  flow'ry  meads,  can  with  that  sigh  compare  : 

Not  dew-drops  glitt'ring  in  the  morning  ray, 
Seem  near  so  beauteous  as  that  falling  tear. 

Teach  me  to  soothe  the  helpless  orphan's  grief  j 
With  timely  aid  the  widow's  woes  assuage  ; 

To  mis'ry's  moving  cries  to  yield  relief, 
And  be  the  sure  resource  of  drooping  age. 

So  when  the  verdant  spring  of  youth  shall  fade, 
And  sinking  nature  owns  the  dread  decay, 

Some  soul  congenial  then  may  lead  its  aid, 
And  gild  the  close  of  lilVs  eventful  day. 


LOOKING-GLASS.  67 


LEONORA  AND  ADOLPHUS. 

A  YOUNG  widow  lady,  who -6  name  was  Lenox, 
had  two  children,  Leonora  and  Adolphus,  both  equally 
deserving  the  affections  of  a  parent,  which,  however, 
were  unequally  shared.  Adolphus  was  the  favorite, 
which  Leonora  very  early  began  to  discover,  and  con- 
sequent]jT  felt  no  small  share  of  uneasiness  on  the  oc- 
casion ;  but  she  was  prudent  enough  to  conceal  her 
sorrow. 

Leonora,  though  not  remarkably  handsome,  had  a 
mind  that  made  ample  amends  for  the  want  of  beauty  ; 
but  her  brother  was  a  little  Cupid,  on  whom  Mrs.  Le- 
nox lavished  ail  her  kisses  and  caresses.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  the  servants,  to  gain  the  favor  of  their  mistress, 
were  very  attentive  to  humor  him  in  all  his  whimsies. 
Leonora,  on  the  other  hand,  was  consequently  slight- 
ed by  every  one  in  the  house  ;  and,  so  far  from  wish- 
ing to  study  her  humor,  they  scarcely  treated  her  with 
common  civilitv. 


68  LOOKING-GLASS. 

Finding  herself  frequently  alone  and  neglected,  and 
taken  ice  of  by  any  one,  she  would  privately 

shed  a  torrent  of  tears  ;  but  she  always  t<  !  care,  that 
not  the  least  mark  of  discontent  should  i  cape  her  in 
the  presence  of  any  one.  Her  c<  nstant  attention  to 
the  observance  of  her  duty,  her  mildness,  and  endea- 
vors to  convince  her  mother,  that  her  mind  was  supe- 
rior to  her  face,  had  no  effect;  for  beauty  alone  attracts 
the  attention  of  those,  who  examine  no  further  than  ex- 
ternal appearances. 

Mrs.  Lenox,  who  was  continually  chiding  Leonora, 
and  expecting  from  her  perfections  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  those  more  advanced  in  years,  at  last  fell  sick. 

Adolphus  seemed  very  sorry  for  his  mother's  illness  ; 
but  Leonora,  with  the  softest  looks  and  most  languish- 
ing countenance,  fancied  she  perceived  in  her  mother 
an  abatement  of  her  accustomed  rigor  towards  her,  and 
far  surpassed  her  brother  in  her  attention  to  her  parent. 
She  endeavored  to  supply  her  slightest  wants,  exerted 
all  her  penetration  to  discover  them,  that  she  might 
even  spare  her  the  pain  of  asking  for  any  thing.  So 
long  as  her  mother's  illness  had  the  least  appearance  of 
danger,  she  never  quitted  her  pillow,  and  neither 
threats  nor  commands  could  prevail  on  her  to  take  the 
least  repose. 

Mrs.  Lenox,  however,  at  length  recovered,  which 
afforded  inexpressible  pleasure  to  the  amiable  Leonora; 
but  she  soon  experienced  a  renewal  of  her  misfortunes, 
as  her  mother  began  to  treat  her  with  her  usual  severity 
and  indifference. 

As  Mrs.  Lenox  was  one  day  talking  to  her  children 
on  the  pain  she  had  suffered  during  her  illness,  and  was 
praising  them  for  the  anxiety  they  had  shewn  on  her 


LOOKING-GLASS.  65 

account,  she  desired  them  to  ask  of  her  whatever  they 
thought  would  be  the  most  pleasing  to  them,  and  they 
should  certainly  be  indulged  in  it,  provided  their  de- 
mands were  not  unreasonable. 

First  addressing  herself  to  Adolphus,  she  desired  to 
know  what  he  would  choose ;  and  his  desire  was  to  have  a 
cane  and  a  watch,  which  his  mother  promised  he  should 
have  the  next  morning.  ' And  pray,  Leonora,  (said  Mrs. 
Lenox)  what  is  your  wish? — '  Me,  mamma,  me?  (an- 
swered she,  trembling)  if  you  do  but  love  me,  I  have  no- 
thing else  to  wish  for ! — '  That  is  not  an  answer  ;  (repli- 
ed her  mother)  you  shall  have  your  recompence  likewise 
miss;  therefore  speak  your  wish  instantly.' 

However  accustomed  Leonora  might  have  been  to 
this  severe  tone,  yet  she  felt  it  on  this  occasion  more 
sensibly  than  ever  she  had  before.  She  threw  herself  at 
her  mother's  feet,  looked  up  to  her  with  eyes  swimming 
in  tears,  and  instantly  hiding  her  face  with  both  her 
hands,  lisped  out  these  words  :  '  Only  give  me  two  kis- 
ses, such  as  you  give  my  brother.' 

What  heart  could  fail  to  relent  at  these  words  ?  Mrs. 
Lenox  felt  all  the  tender  sentiments  of  a  parent  arise  in 
her  heart,  and  taking  her  up  in  her  arms,  she  clasped 
her  to  her  breast,  and  loaded  her  with  kisses.  The 
sweet  Leonora,  who  now  for  the  first  time  received  her 
mother's  careifees,  gave  way  to  the  effusion  of  her  joy 
and  love  ;  she  kissed  her  cheeks,  her  eyes,  her  breasts, 
and  her  hands ;  and  Adolphus,  who  loved  his  sister,  mix- 
ed his  embraces  with  hers.  Thus  all  had  a  share  in  this 
scene  of  unexpected  happiness. 

The  affection  which  Mrs.  Lenox  had  so  long  with- 
held from  Leonora,  she  now  repaid  with  interest,  and 
her  daughter  returned  it  with  the  most  dutiful  atten- 


TO  LOOKING-GLASS. 

tion.  Adolphus,  so  far  from  bang  jealous  at  this 
change  of  his  mother's  affection  for  his  sister,  shewed 
every  mark  of  pleasure  on  the  occasion,  and  he  after- 
wards reaped  a  reward  of  so  generous  a  conduct  ;  for 
his  natural  disposition  having  been,  in  some  measure, 
injured  by  the  too  great  indulgence  of  his  mother,  he 
gave  way  in  his  early  days  to  those  little  indiscretions, 
which  would  have  lost  him  the  heart  of  his  parent,  had 
not  his  sister  stepped  in  between  them.  It  was  to  the 
advice  of  this  amiable  girl  that  Adolphus  at  last  owed 
his  entire  reformation  of  manners.  They  all  three  then 
experienced,  that  true  happiness  cannot  exist  in  a  fa- 
mily, unless  the  most  perfect  union  between  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  the  most  lively  and  equal  affection  be- 
tween parents  and  children,  are  constantly  and  strictly 
adhered  to. 

THE  shape  alone  let  others  prize 

The  features  of  the  fair  ; 
I  look  for  spirit  in  her  eyes, 

And  meaning  in  her  air. 
A  damask  cheek,  and  ivory  arm, 

Shall  ne'er  my  wishes  win : 
Give  me  an  animated  form 

That  speaks  a  mind  within. 
A  face  where  awful  honor  shines,    # 

Where  sense  and  sweetness  move. 
And  angel  innocence  refines 

The  tenderness  of  love. 
These  are  the  soul  of  beauty's  frafce. 

Without  whose  vital  aid 
Unfinished  all  her  features  seem,  ^\ 

And  all  her  roses  dead.  * 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


71 


FLORA  AND  HER  LITTLE  LAMB. 

Z\.  POOR  countryman's  little  daughter,  whose  name 
was  Flora,  was  one  morning  sitting  by  the  side  of  the 
road,  holding  on  her  lap  a  pan  of  milk  for  her  break- 
fast, into  which  she  was  breaking  some  bits  of  coarse 
black  bread. 

While  Flora  was  thus  busily  employed  at  her  break- 
fast, a  farmer  was  passing  the  road  with  his  cart,  in 
which  were  about  twenty  lambs,  and  these  he  was  go- 
ing to  carry  to  market  for  sale.  These  pretty  little 
lambs,  were  ti^d  together  like  so  many  criminals,  and 
lay  with  their  legs  fastened  with  cords,  and  their  heads 
hanging  down.  Their  plaintive  bleatings  pierced  the 
heart  of  poor  Flora,  but  they  had  no  manner  of  effect 
on  the  hard-hearted  farmer. 

As  soon  as  he  came  opposite  to  the  place  where  little 
Flora  was  sitting  he  threw  down  to  her  a  lamb,  which 
he  was  carrying  across  his  shoulder,  saying,  *  There  my 
girl,  is  a  poor  sorry  creature  that  has  just  died,  and 


7«  LOOKING-GLASS. 

made  me  some  shillings  poorer  than  I  was.      You  may 
take  it,  if  you  will,  and  do  what  you  like  with  it.' 

Flora  put  down  her  milk  and  bread,  and  taking  up 
the  lamb,  viewed  it  with  looks  of  tenderness  and  com- 
passion. (  But  why  should  I  pity  you  ?  (said  she  to 
the  lamb)  either  this  day  or  to-morrow,  they  would 
have  run  a  great  knife  through  your  throat,  whereas 
now  you  have  nothing  to  fear. ' 

While  she  was  thus  speaking,  the  warmth  of  her 
arms  somewhat  revived  the  lamb,  who  opening  its  eyes 
a  little,  made  a  slight  motion,  and  cried  baa  in  a  very 
low  tone,  as  if  it  were  calling  for  its  mother.  It  would 
be  impossible  to  express  little  Flora's  joy  on  this  occa- 
sion. She  covered  the  lamb  in  her  apron,  and  over 
that  put  her  stuff  petticoat ;  site  then  bent  her  breast 
down  towards  her  Jap,  in  order  tocncrease  the  warmth, 
and  blew  into  its  mouth  and  nostrils  with  all  the  force 
she  could.  By  degrees  the  poor  animal  began  to  stir, 
and  every  motion  it  made  conveyed  joy  to  her  little 
heart. 

This  success  encouraged  her  to  proceed  :  she  crum- 
bled some  of  her  bread  into  her  pan,  and  taking  it  up 
}n  her  fingers,  she  with  no  small  difficulty  forced  it  be- 
tween its  teeth,  which  were  very  firmly  closed  together. 
The  lamb,  whose  only  disorder  was  hunger  and  fatigue, 
began  to  feel  the  effects  of  this  nourishment.  It  first 
began  to  stretch  out  its  limbs,  then  to  shake  its  head, 
to  wag  its  tail,  and  at  last  to  prick  up  its  ears.  In  a 
little  time  it  was  able  to  stand  upon  its  legs,  and  then 
went  of  itself  to  Flora's  breakfast  pan,  who  was  highly 
delighted  to  see  it  take  such  pleasing  liberties ;  for  she 
cared  not  a  farthing  about  losing  her  own  breakfast, 
since  it  saved  the  life  of  the  little  lamb.     In  short,  in  a 


LOOKING-GLASS.  73 

little  time  it  recovered  its  usual  strength,  and  began  to 
ship  and  play  about  her  kind  deliverer. 

It  may  naturally  be  supposed,  that  Flora  was  great- 
lv  pleased  at  this  unexpected  success.  She  took  it  up 
in  her  arms,  and  ran  with  it  to  the  cottage  to  shew  it  to 
her  mother.  Her  Baba,  for  so  Flora  called  it,  became 
the  first  object  of  her  cares,  and  it  constantly  shared 
with  her  in  the  little  allowance  of  bread  and  milk, 
which  she  received  for  her  meals.  Indeed,  so  fond  was 
she  of  it,  that  she  would  not  have  exchanged  it  for  a 
whole  flock.  Nor  was  Baba  insensible  of  the  fond- 
ness of  her  little  mistress,  since  she  would  follow  her 
wherever  she  went,  would  come  and  eat  out  of  her  hand, 
skip  and  frisk  round  her,  and  would  bleat  most  piteous- 
ly,  whenever  Flora  was  obliged  to  leave  her  at  home. 
Baba,  however,  repaid  the  services  of  her  little  mis- 
tress in  a  more  substantial  manner,  than  that  of  merely 
dancing  about  her  ;  for  she  brought  forth  young  lambs, 
those  lambs  grew  up,  and  brought  forth  others  ;  so  that 
within  the  space  of  a  few  years,  Flora  had  a  very  capi- 
tal flock,  that  furnished  the  whole  family  with  food 
and  raiment.  Such,  my  little  readers,  are  the  rewards 
which  Providence  bestows  on  acts  of  goodness,  tender- 
ness and  humanity. 

WIDE  as  the  sun  his  bright  dominion  spreads, 
Heav'n-born  Benevolence  her  bounty  sheds. 
She,  meek-ey'd  goddess,  quits  the  angelic  sphere, 
To  banish  grief,  and  dry  the  human  tear. 

Plenty's  rich  urn  her  willing  arms  sustain, 
Life,  Hope,  and  Joy,  exulting  in  her  train. 
Her  ear  is  open  to  the  orphan's  cry, 
Her  soul  expanding,  as  the  poor  pass  by* 
G 


LOOKING-GLASS. 

From  her  bless'd  tongue,  the  words  of  manna  flow, 

And  carry  Courage  to  desponding  Woe. 
Objects  of  aid  she  seeks,  through  all  the  land, 
Diffusing  bounty  with  a  Saviour's  hand. 

Thro*  prison-bars  she  darts  a  pitying  eye, 
Her  heart,  responsive,  echoes  sigh  for  sigh  : 
Nor  scorns  she  ev'n  the  malefactor's  chain  : 


She  mourns  his  guilt- 


-but  mitigates  his  pain. 


The  wretch  she  asks  not,  in  what  climate  bred, 
To  what  profession  or  religion  wed  ; 
That's  not  the  subject  of  her  mission  there — 
To  succor  all  Avho  wants,  is  all  her  care. 

These  are,  O  bright  Benevolence,  thy  ways, 
And  these  the  solid  basis  of  thy  praise  ! 
When  Caesar's  fame,  and  Malbro's  deeds  are  past, 
Th'  effects  of  thy  philanthropy  shall  last. 

In  nature's  wreck,  the  juster  fates  shall  see 
Distinguish 'd  worth  ;  and  fix  their  eyes  on  thee  ; 
A  preference  for  thy  honest  heart  shall  find, 
Before  the  proud  destroyers  of  mankind. 
Their  lapsing  honors  shall  forbear  to  save  : 
But  thy  blest  name  shall  triumph  o'er  the  grave* 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


THE 

iT  was  in  the  beginning  of  the  spring,  when  Mr. 
Jackson  went  to  his  country  house,  and  took  with  him 
his  little  son  Junius,  in  order  to  treat  him  with  a  walk 
in  the  garden.  The  primroses  and  violets  were  then 
displaying  all  their  beauties,  and  many  trees  had  begun 
to  shew  what  livery  they  were  soon  to  wear. 

After  walking  some  time  about  the  gar  den,  they  hap- 
pened to  go  into  the  summer-house,  at  the  foot  of  which 
grew  the  stump  of  a  vine,  which  twisted  wildly,  and 
extended  its  naked  branches  in  a  rude  and  irregular 
manner.  As  soon  as  little  Junius  saw  this  tree,  he  ex- 
claimed sadly  against  the  ugly  appearance  it  made, 
and  began  to  exert  all  his  strength  to  pull  it  up  ;  but 
he  found  his  efforts  in  vain,  it  being  too  well  rooted  to 
yield  to  his  weak  arm.  He  begged  his  papa  to  call 
the  gardener  to  grub  it  up,  and  make  fire-wood  of  it  ; 
but  Mr.  Jackson  desired  his  son  to  let  the  tree  alone, 
telling  him  that  he  would,  in  a  few  months,  give  him 
his  reasons  for  not  complying  with  his  request. 


To  LOOKING-GLASS. 

This  did  not  satisfy  Junius,  who  desired  his  father  to 
look  at  those  lively  croeusses  and  snow-drops,  saying, 
he  could  not  see  why  that  barren  stump  should  he 
kept,  which  did  not  produce  a  single  green  leaf.  \\c 
thought  it  spoiled  and  disfigured  the  garden,  and 
therefore  begged  his  lather  would  permit  him  to  fetch 
the  gardener  to  pluck  it  up. 

Mr.  Jackson,  who  could  not  think  of  granting  his 
request,  told  him,  that  it  must  stand  as  it  then  was,  at 
least  for  some  time  to  come.  Little  Junius  still  persist- 
ed in  his  entreaties,  urging  how  disgraceful  it  was  to 
the  garden  ;  but  his  father  diverted  his  attention  from 
the  vine,  by  turning  the  conversation. 

It  so  happened,  that  Mr.  Jackson's  affairs  called  him 
to  a  different  part  of  the  country,  from  whence  he  did 
not  return  till  the  middle  of  autumn.  He  no  sooner 
came  home,  than  he  paid  a  visit  to  his  country  house, 
taking  little  Junius  with  him.  As  the  day  happened 
to  be  exceeding  warm,  they  retired  to  enjoy  the  be- 
nefit of  the  shade,  and  entered  the  arbor,  in  which  the 
vine  stump  had  so  much  before  offended  his  son  Junius. 

c  Ah  !  papa,  (said  the  young  gentleman)  how  charm- 
ing and  delightful  is  tins  green  shade  !  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you  for  having  that  dry  and  ugly  stump 
plucked  up,  which  I  found  so  much  fault  with  when 
Ave  were  here  last,  and  for  putting  in  its  place  this 
beautiful  plant  ;  I  suppose  you  did  it  in  order  to  give 
me  an  agreeable  surprize.  How  delightful  and  tempt- 
ing the  fruit  looks  !  What  fine  grapes  !  some  purple, 
and  others  almost  black.  I  see  no  tree  in  the  garden 
that  looks  m  so  blooming  a  state.  All  have  lost  their 
fruit;  but  this  fine  one  seems  in  the  highest  perfec- 
tion.    See  how  it  is  loaded  !  See  those  wide-spreading 


LOOKING-GLASS.  77 

leaves  that  hide  the  clusters.  If  the  fruit  be4 as  good 
as  it  appears  beautiful,  it  must  be  delicious  !' 

Little  Junius  was  in  raptures  when  he  tasted  one  of 
the  grapes,  which  his  father  gave  him  ;  and  still  more 
when  he  informed  him,  that  from  such  fruit  was  made 
that  delicious  liquor,  which  he  sometimes  tasted  after 
dinner.  The  little  fellow  was  quite  astonished  on 
hearing  his  father  talk  thus  ;  but  he  was  far  more  sur- 
prized, when  Mr.  Jackson  told  him,  that  all  those 
fine  leaves,  and  delicious  fruit,  grew  from  that  very 
crooked  and  mishapen  stump,  with  which  he  had  been 
so  angry  in  the  spring.  His  father  then  asked  him,  if 
he  should  now  order  the  gardener  to  pluck  it  up,  and 
make  fire-wood  of  it.  Junius  was  much  confused ; 
but,  after  a  short  silence,  told  his  papa,  that  he  would 
ra-ther  see  every  other  tree,  in  the  garden  cut  down 
than  that,  so  beautiful  were  its  leaves,  and  so  deli- 
cious its  fruit. 

As  Mr.  Jackson  was  a  man  of  good  sense,  he  thus 
moralized  on  this  occasion.  '  You  see  then,  my  dear,, 
(said  he)  how  imprudently  I  should  have  acted,  had  I 
followed  your  advice,  and  cut  down  this  tree.  Daily 
experience  convinces  us,  that  the  same  thing  happens 
frequently  in  the  commerce  of  this  world,  which  has 
in  this  instance  misled  you.  When  we  see  a  child 
badly  clothed,  and  of  an  unpleasing  external  appear- 
ance, we  are  too  apt  to  despise  him,  and  grow  conceited 
on  comparing  ourselves  withhim  ;  and  sometimes  even 
gosofar  as  cruelly  to  address  himin  haughty  and  insult- 
ing language.  But  beware,  my  dear  boy,  how  you 
run  into  errors  by  forming  a  too  hasty  judgment.  It 
is  possible,  that  in  a  person  so  little  favored  by  na-, 
ture,  may  dwell  an  exalted  soul,  which  may  one  day 


LOOKING-GLASS. 

astonish  the  world,  with  the  greatness  of  its  virtues,  or 
enlighten  it  with  knowledge.  The  most  rugged  stem 
may  produce  the  most  delicious  fruit,  while  the  straight 
and  stately  plant  may  be  worthless  and  barren.' 

BENEATH  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew  tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  eell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield  ; 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  : 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  teams  afield  ! 

How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 

Await  alike,  the  inevitable  hour; 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Full  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear  ; 

Full  many  a  flow'ris  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  wa»t<  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


19 


SIR  JOHN  DENHAM  AND  HIS  WORTHY  TENANT. 

vJNE  morning,  Sir  John  Denham  having  shut  him- 
self up  in  his  study  on  some  particular  business,  his 
servant  came  to  inform  him  that  one  of  his  tenants,  far- 
mer Harris,  desired  to  speak  with  him.  Sir  John  told 
him  to  shew  the  farmer  into  the  drawing  room,  and  to 
beg  him  to  stay  one  moment,  until  he  had  finished  writ- 
ing a  letter. 

Sir  John  had  three  children,  Robert,  Arthur,  and  So- 
phia, who  were  in  the  drawing  room  when  the  farmer 
was  introduced.  As  soon  as  he  entered,  he  saluted  them 
very  respectfully,  though  not  with  the  grace  of  a  danc- 
ing master,  nor  were  his  compliments  very  elegantly 
turned.  The  two  sons  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
smile  of  contempt  and  disrespect.  Indeed,  they  behav- 
ed in  such  a  manner,  that  the  poor  farmer  blushed,  and 
was  quite  out  of  countenance. 

Robert  was  so  shamefully  impertinent  as  to  walk 
round  him,  holding  his  nose,  and  asking  his  brother, 
if  he  did  not  perceive  something  of  the  smell  of  a 


■80  LOOKING-GLASS. 

dung  heap  ?  Then  he  lighted  some  paper  at  the  tire, 
and  carried  it  round  the  room,  in  order  to  disperse,  as 
he  said,  the  unpleasant  smell.  Arthur  all  the  while 
stood  laughing  most  heartily. 

Sophia,  however,  acted  in  a  very  different  manner  ; 
for,  instead  of  imitating  the  rudeness  of  her  brothers, 
she  checked  them  for  their  behavior,  made  apologies 
for  them  to  the  farmer,  and  approaching  him  with  the 
most  complaisant  looks,  offered  him  some  wine  to  re- 
fresh him,  made  him  sit  down,  and  took  from  him  his 
hat  and  stick  to  put  by. 

In  a  little  time,  Sir  John  came  out  of  his  study,  and 
approaching  the  farmer  in  a  friendly  maimer,  took  him 
by  the  hand,  enquired  after  the  health  of  his  family, 
and  asked  him  what  had  brought  him  to  town.  The 
farmer  replied,  that  he  was  come  to  pay  him  half  a 
year's  rent,  and  that  he  hoped  he  would  not  be  dis- 
pleased at  his  not  coming  sooner,  the  roads  having 
been  so  bad  that  he  could  not  till  then  cany  his  corn 
to  market. 

Sir  John  told  him  he  was  not  displeased  at  his  not 
coming  sooner ;  because  he  knew  him  to  be  an  honest 
man,  who  had  no  occasion  to  be  put  in  mind  of  his  debts. 
The  farmer  then  put  down  the  money,  and  drew  out  of 
his  great  coat  pocket  ajar  of  candied  fruits.  ;  I  have 
brought  something  here,  (said  he)  for  the  young  folks. 
Won't  you  be  so  kind,  Sir  John,  as  to  let  them  come 
out  one  of  these  days,  and  take  a  mouthful  of  the  coun- 
try air  with  us  ?  I'd  try,  as -well  as  I  could,  to  entertain 
and  amuse  them.  I  have  two  good  stout  nags,  and 
would  come  for  them  myself,  and  take  them  down  in 
my  four-wheeled  chaise,  which  will  carry  them  very 
safely,  I'll  warrant  it,' 


LOOKING-GLASS.  81 

Sir  John  said,  that  he  would  certainly  take  an  op- 
portunity to  pay  him  a  visit,  and  invited  him  to  stay 
to  dinner  ;  but  the  farmer  excused  himself,  say- 
ing, he  had  a  good  deal  of  business  to  do  in  town,  and 
wished  to  get  home  before  night.  Sir  John  filled  his 
pocket  with  cakes  for  his  children,  thanked  him  for  the 
present  he  had  made  to  his,  and  then  took  leave  of  him. 

No  sooner  was  the  farmer  gone,  than  Sophia,  in  the 
presence  of  her  brothers,  acquainted  her  papa  of  the 
very  rude  reception  they  had  given  the  honest  farmer. 
Sir  John  was  exceedingly  displeased  at  their  conduct, 
and  much  applauded  Sophia  for  her  different  behavior. 

Sir  John,  being  seated  at  breakfast  with  his  children, 
opened  the  farmer's  jar  of  fruit,  and  he  and  his  daugh- 
ter ate  some  of  them,  which  they  thought  were  very 
nice  ;  but  Robert  and  Arthur  were  neither  of  them 
invited  to  a  single  taste.  Their  longing  eyes  were  fix- 
ed upon  them  ;  but  their  father,  instead  of  taking  any 
notice  of  them,  continued  conversing  with  Sophia, 
whom  he  advised,  never  to  despise  a  person  merely  for 
the  plainness  of  his  dress  ;  '  for,  ( said  he )  were  we  to 
behave  politely  to  those  only  who  are  finely  cloathed, 
we  should  appear  to  direct  our  attention  more  to  the 
dress  than  to  the  wearer.  The  most  worthy  people 
are  frequently  found  under  the  plainest,  dress,  and  of 
this  have  an  example  in  farmer  Harris.  It  is  this  man 
who  helps  to  clothe  you,  and  also  to  procure  you  a 
proper  education,  for  the  money  that  he  and  my  other 
tenants  bring  me,  enables  me  to  do  these  things.' 

Bre  Jkfast  being  finished,  the  remainder  of  the  fruit 
was  ordered  to  be  locked  up  ;  but  Robert  and  his  bro- 
ther, whose  longing  eyes  followed  the  jar,  clearly  saw 
they  were  to  have,  none  of  them.     In  this  they  were 


R2  i.  >OKING-GLAS  , 

i  ir  father,  who  told  them  not  tq  expect 

to  taste  any  of  those  fruits,  either  on  that  or  any  fu- 
ture day. 

Robert  endeavored  to  excuse  himself,  by  saying, 
that  it  was  not  his  fault  if  the  farmer  did  not  smell  well; 
and  he  thought  there  was  no  harm  in  telling  him  of  it. 
If  people  will  go  among  dung  they  must  expect  to 
smell  of  it.  '  And  yet  (said  Sir  John)  if  this  man 
were  not  to  manure  his  land  with  dung,  his  crops  would 
fail  him,  he  would  be  unable  to  pay  his  rent,  and  you 
yourself  would  perhaps  be  obliged  to  follow  a  dung- 
cart.'  The  two  boys  saw  displeasure  in  their  papa's 
countenance,  and  therefore  did  not  presume  to  say  any 
thin^  more. 

o 

Early  on  a  morning  shortly  after,  the  good  farmer 
came  to  Sir  John  Denham's  door,  and  sent  up  his  com- 
pliments, kindly  inviting  him  to  make  a  little  excursion 
to  his  farm.  Sir  John  could  not  resist  the  friendly  in- 
vitation, iis  a  refusal  might  perhaps  have  made  the  ho- 
nest farmer  uneasy.  Robert  and  Arthur  begged  very- 
hard  to  £0  alonor  with  them,  promising  to  behave  more 
Civilly  in  future,  and  Sophia  begged  for  them  likewise. 
Sir  John  at  last  consented.  They  then  mounted  the 
four-wheeled  chaise  with  joyful  countenances,  and  as 
the  farmer  had  a  pair  of  good  horses,  they  were  there. 
in  a  short  time.  " 

On  their  arrival,  Mrs.  Harris,  the  farmer's  wife, 
came  to  the  door  to  receive  them,  helped  the  young; 
gentlefolks  out  of  the  chaise,  and  kissed  them.  Ail  their; 
little  family,  dnessed  in  their  best  clothes,  came  cat  to 
compliment  their  visitors.  Sir  John  woul  J  have  pop- 
ped a  moment  to  talk  with  the  little  ones,  and  caress 
them  ;  but  Mrs.    Harris  pressed  him  to  go  in,  lest  the 


LOOKING-GLASS.  S3 

coffee  should  grow  cold,  it  being  already  poured  out,  it 
was  placed  on  a  table,  covered  with  a  napkin  as  white 
as  snow. 

Indeed  the  coffee-pot  was  not  silver,  nor  the  cups  chi- 
na, yet  every  thing  was  in  the  neatest  order.  Robert 
and  Arthur,  however,  looked  slily  at  each  other,  and. 
would  have  burst  out  into  a  laugh,  had  not  their  father 
been  present.  Mrs.  Harris,  who  was  a  sensible  woman, 
guessed  by  their  looks  what  they  thought,  and  there- 
fore made  an  apology  for  the  humble  stile  in  which  her 
table  was  set  out,  which  she  owned  could  not  be  equal 
to  what  they  met  with  at  their  own  homes  ;  but  hoped 
they  would  not  be  dissatisfied  at  her  homely  fare.  The 
cakes  she  produced  were  excellent,  for  she  spared  no 
pains  in  making  them. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  the  farmer  asked  Sir 
John  to  look  at  his  orchard  and  grounds,  and  Mrs, 
Karris  took  all  the  pains  she  could  to  make  the  walk 
pleasing  to  the  children.  She  shewed  them  all  her 
flocks^  which  covered  the  fields,  and  gave  them  the 
prettiest  lambs  to  play  with.  She  then  conducted  them 
to  her  pidgeon-house,  where  every  thing  was  clean  and 
wholesome.— There  were  some  so  young  that  they 
were  unable  to  fly  ;  seme  of  the  mothers  sitting  on  their 
eggs,  and  others  employed  in  feeding  their  young. 
From  the  pigeon-house  they  proceeded  to  the  bee- 
hive ;  but  Mrs.  Harris  took  care  that  they  should  no* 
go  too  neat  them,  for  fear  of  being  stung. 

Most  of  these  sights  being  new  to  the  children,  they 
seemed  highly  pleased  with  them,  and  were  even  going 
to  take  a  second  surrey  of  them,  'when  the  farmer's 
youngest  son  came  to  inform  them  that  dinner  was  rea- 
dy* They  eat  off  pewter,  and  drank  out  -of  delf  ware  ; 


U  LOOKING-GLASS. 

but  Robert  and  Arthur  finding  themselves  so  well  plea- 
sed with  their  morning  walk  glared  not  to  indulge  them- 
selves in  ill-natured  observations.  Mrs.  Harris,  indeed, 
had  spared  neither  pains  nor  attention  to  procure  eve- 
ry thing  in  the  best  manner  she  was  able. 

Sir  John,  after  dinner,  perceiving  two  fiddles  hang 
up  against  the  wall,  asked  who  played  on  those  instru- 
ments. The  farmer  answered,  he  and  his  son  ;  and 
without  saying  a  word  more,  he  made  a  sign  to  his  son 
Luke  to  take  down  the  fiddles.  They  by  turns  played 
some  old  tunes,  with  which  Sir  John  seemed  highly 
delighted.  As  they  were  going  to  hang  up  the  in- 
struments, Sir  John  desired  his  two  sons  to  play  some 
of  their  best  tunes,  putting  the  fiddles  into  their  hands, 
but  they  knew  not  even  how  to  hold  the  bow,  and 
their  confusion  occasioned  a  general  laugh. 

Sir  John  now  thinking  it  time  to  return  home,  desir- 
ed the  farmer  to  order  the  carriage.  Farmer  Llarris 
strongly  pressed  Sir  John  to  stay  all  night,  but  the  far- 
mer was  at  last  obliged  to  submit  to  Sir  John's  excuses. 

On  his  return  home,  he  asked  his  son  Robert  how 
he  had  liked  his  entertainment,  and  what  he  should 
have  thought  of  the  farmer,  if  be  had  taken  no  pains  to 
entertain  them.  He  replied,  that  he  liked  his  entertain- 
ment ;  but  had  he  not  taken  pains  to  accommodate 
them,  he  should  have  thought  him  an  unmannerly 
clown.  'Ah,  Robert!  Robert!  (said  Sir  John)  this  ho- 
nest man  came  to  our  house,  and,  instead  of  offering 
him  any  refreshment,  you  made  game  of  him.  Which 
then  is  the  best  bred,  you  or  the  farmer?' 

Robert  blushed  and  seemed  at  a  loss  what  answer  to 
make ;  but  at  length  replied,  that  it  was  his  duty  to  re- 
ceive them  well,  as  he  got  his  living  off  their  lands. 


LOOKING-GLASS.  83 

*  That  is  true,  (answered  Sir  John)  but  it  may  be  easi- 
ly seen  who  draws  the  greatest  profit  from  my  lauds, 
the  farmer  or  I.  He  indeed  feeds  his  horses  with  hay 
which  he  gets  off  my  meadows,  but  his  horses  in  return 
plow  the  fields,  which  otherwise  would  be  overrun 
with  weeds.  He  also  feeds  his  cows  and  sheep  with  the 
hay  ;  but  their  dung  is  useful  in  giving  fertility  to  the 
ground.  His  wife  and  children  are  fed  with  the  har- 
vest corn ;  but  they  in  return  devote  the  summer  to 
weeding  the  crops ;  and  afterwards,  some  in  reaping 
them,  and  some  in  threshing.  All  these  labors  end  in 
my  advantage.  The  rest  of  the  hay  and  corn  he  takes 
to  market  to  sell,  and  with  the  produce  thereof  he  pays 
his  rent.  From  this  it  is  evident  Avho  derives  the 
greatest  profit  from  my  knds.' 

Here  a  long  pause  ensued  ;  but  at  last  Robert  con- 
fessed that  he  saw  his  error. — c  Remember  then,  all 
your  life  (said  Sir  John)  what  has  now  been  offered 
to  your  eyes  and  ears.  This  farmer,  so  homely  dressed, 
whose  manners  you  have  considered  as  so  rustic,  this 
man  is  better  bred  than  you  ;  and,  though  he  knows 
nothing  of  Latin,  he  knows  much  more  than  you,  and 
things  of  much  greater  use.  You  see,  therefore, 
how  unjust  it  is  to  despise  any  one  for  the  plainness  of 
his  dress,  and  the  rusticity  of  his  manners.  You  may 
understand  a  little  Latin,  but  you  know  not  how  to 
plough,  sow  grain,  or  reap  the  harvest,  nor  even  to 
prune  a  tree.  Sit  down  with  being  convinced  that  you 
have  despised  your  superior.' 

NATURE  expects  mankind  should  share 
The  duties  of  the  public  care. 
Who's  born  for  sloth  I  To  some  we  find 
u        The  plow-share's  annual  toil  as.iign'd. 


I 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


Seme  at  the  sounding  anvil  glow  ; 
Some  the  swift-sliding  shuttle  throw  : 
Some,  studious  of  the  wind  and  t. 
From  pole  to  pole  our  commerce  guiae  : 
Some,  taught  by  industry,  impart 
With  hands  and  feet  the  works  of  art  : 
While  some,  of  genius  more  retin'd, 
With  head  and  tongue  assist  mankind  ; 
Each  aiming  at  one  common  end, 
Proves  to  the  whole  a  needful  friend. 
Thus,  born  each  other's  useful  aid, 
l$v  turns  are  obligations  paid. 

The  monarch,  when  his  table's  spread; 
Is  to  the  clown  obliged  for  bread  ; 
And  when  in  all  his  glory  drost, 
Owes  to  the  loom  his  royal  vest. 
Do  not  the  mason's  toil  and  care 
Protect  him  from  the  inclement  air  ? 
Does  not  the  cuttler's  art  supply 
The  ornament  that  guards  his  thigh  ? 
Thus  they  their  honest  toil  employ; 
And  with  content  their  fruits  enjoy. 
In  ev'ry  rank,  or  great  or  small, 
'Tis  industry  supports  us  all. 

Consider,  sot,  what  would  ensue, 
Were  all  such  worthless  tilings  as  you, 
You'd  soon  be  fore'd  by  huog 
To  make  your  dirty  meals  on  dung; 
On  which  such  despicable  need, 
Unpitied,  is  redue'd  to  i'^.ci.]. 
Besides,  vain,  selfish  insect,  learn, 
If  you  can  right  and  wrong  discern, 
That  I13  who,  with  industrious  zeal, 
Contributes  to  the  public  weal, 
By  adding  to  the  common  good, 
vvn  hath  rightly  understood. 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


87 


ALFRED  AND  DORINDA. 


M 


H.  VENABLES,  one  fine  summer  day,  having 
promised  bis  two  children,  Alfred  and  Dorinda,  to  treat 
them  with  a  walk  in  a  fine  garden  a  little  way  out  of 
town,  went  up  into  his  dressing-room  to  prepare  him- 
self, leaving  the  two  children  in  the  parlor. 

Alfred  was  so  delighted  with  the  thoughts  of  the 
pleasure  he  should  receive  from  his  walk,  that  he  jump- 
ed about  the  room,  without  thinking  of  any  evil  conse- 
quence that  could  happen ;  but  unluckily  the  skirt  of 
his  coat  brushed  against  a  very  valuable  flower,  which 
his  lather  was  rearing  with  great  pains,  and  which  he 
had  unfortunately  just  removed  from  before  the  win- 
dow, in  order  to  skreen  it  from,  the  scorching  heat  of 
the  sun. 

'  O  brother  !  brother  !  (said  Dorinda,  taking  up  the 
flower  which  was  broken  off  from  the  stalk)  what  have 
you  done  !'  The  sweet  girl  was  holding  the  flower  in 
her  hand,  when  her  father  having  dressed  himself,  came 
into  the  parlor.     '  Bless  me,  Dorinda,  (said  Mr.  Vena 


Si  LOOKING-GLASS. 

bios  in  an  angry  tone)  how  could  you  be  so  thoughtless 
as  to  pluck  a  Mower,  which  you  have  seen  me  take  so 
much  care  to  rear,  in  order  to  have  seed  from  it.'  Poor 
Dorinda  was  in  such  a  fright,  that  she  could  only  beg 
her  papa  not  to  be  angry.  Mr.  Venables,  growing 
more  calm,  replied  he  was  hot  angry,  but  reminded 
her,  that  as  they  were  going  to  a  garden  where  there 
was  a  variety  of  flowers,  she  might  have  waited  till  they 
got  there  to  indulge  her  fancy.  Pie  therefore  hoped 
she  would  not  take  it  amiss  if  he  left  her  at  home. 

This  was  a  terrible  situation  for  Dorinda,  who  held  her 
head  down,  and  said  nothing.  Little  Alfred,  however, 
was  of  too  generous  a  temper  to  keep  silence  any  long- 
er. Lie  went  up  to  his  papa,  wife!}  his  eyes  swimming 
in  tears,  and  told  him,  that  it  was  not  his  sister  but  him- 
self, who  had  accidentally  beaten  oa  the  Lead  of  the 
flower  with  the  flap  of  his  coat.  He  therefore  desired, 
that  his  sitter  might  go  abroad,  and  he  stay  at  home. 

'Mr.  Venables  was  so  delighted  with  the.  generosity 
of  his  children,  that  he  instantly  forgave  the  accident, 
and  tenderly  kissed  them  both,  being  happy  to  see 
tbem  have  such  an  affection  for  each  other.  He  told 
them,  that  he  loved  them  equally  alike,  and  that  they 
should  Loth  go  with  him.  Alfred  and  Dorinda  kissed 
each  other,  and  leaped  about  for  joy. 

They  all  three  then  walked  to  the  garden,  where 
they  saw  plants  of  the  most  valuable  kinds.  Mr.  Vena- 
bles observed  with  pleasure  how  Dorinda  pressed  her 
clothes  on  each  side,  and  Alfred  kept  the  skirts  of  his 
coat  under  his  arms,  for  tear  of  doing  any  damage  in 
their  walk  among  the  flowers. 

The  flower  Mr.  Venables  had  lost  would  have  given 
him  some  pain  had  it  happened  from  any  other  cir- 


LOOKING-GLASS.  89 

cumstance  ;  but  the  pleasure  he  received  from  seeing 
such  mutual  affection  and  regard  subsist  between  his 
two  children,  amply  repaid  him  for  the  loss  of  his 
flower.  I  cannot  omit  the  opportunity  that  here  pre- 
sents itself,  of  reminding  my  young  friends,  not  only 
how  necessary,  but  how  amiable  and  praise- worthy  it 
is,  for  brothers  and  sisters  to  live  together  in  harmony. 
It  is  not  only  their  most  important  interest  to  do  so, 
but  what  should  be  -a  still  stronger  argument  with 
them,  such  are  the  commands  of  him  who  made  them. 

FROM  the  gay  world  we'll  oft  retire, 
To  our  own  family  and  fire, 

Where  love  oar  hours  employ, 
No  noisy  neighbors  enter  here, 
No  intermedling  stranger  near, 

To  spoil  our  heart-felt  joys. 

If  solid  happiness  we  prize, 
Within  our  breasts  this  jewel  lies; 

And  they  are  fools  Avho  roam  : 
The  world  has  nothing  to  bestow, 
From  our  own  selves  our  joys  must  floWj 

And  that  dear  hut  our  home. 

Our  babes  shall  richest  comforts  bring  : 
If  tutor-'cl  rigl.it,  they'll  prove  a  spring 

Whence  pleasure  ever  rise  : 
We'll  form  their  minds  with  studious  car.;., 
To  all  that's  manly,  good,  and  fair, 

And  tram  them  for  the  skies. 

While  they  our  wisest  hours  engage, 
They'll  joy  our  youth,  support  our  age^ 


M  LOOKING-GLASS 

And  crown  our  hoary  hairs  : 
They'll  grow  in  virtue  every  day, 
And  thus  our  fondest  loves  repay, 

A ud  recompencc  our  cares. 

Thus  hand  in  hand,  thro'  life  we'll  go, 
Its  chequer'd  paths  of  joy  and  woe 

With  cautious  steps  we'll  tread  : 
Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a  tear, 
Without  a  trouble,  or  a  fear, 

And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

While  conscience  like  a  faithful  friend, 
Shall  thro'  the  gloomy  vale  attend, 

And  cheer  our  dying  breath  : 
Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease. 
X.ike  a  kind  angel  whisper  peace, 

And  srsvotQ  the  bed  of  death  ! 


LOOKING-GLASS. 

SO 


n 


ROSINA;  OR,  THE  FROWARD  GIRL  REFORMED. 


I 


> 


WOULD  recommend  to  all  my  little  readers,  who 
have  had  the  misfortune  to  contract  a  vicious  habit,  ve- 
ry attentively  to  peruse  the  following  historical  frag- 
ment, in  which,  if  they  will  but  properly  reflect,  they 
will  see  that  amendment  is  no  difficult  thing,  when  once 
they  form  a  sincere  resolution  to  accomplish  it. 

Rosina  was  the  joy  of  her  parents  until  the  seventh 
year  of  her  age,  at  which  period  the  glowing  light  cf 
reason  begins  to  unfold  itself,  and  make  us  sensible  of 
our  infantile  faults  ;  but  this  period  of  life  had  a  differ- 
ent effect  on  Rosina,  who  had  then  contracted  an  un- 
haon 


IV 


disposition,  which  cannot  better  be  described, 
than  by  the  practices  of  those  snarling  curs  that  grum- 
ble incessantly,  and  seem  always  ready  to  run  at  and 
bite  these  that  approach  them. 

If  a  person  touched  any  of  her  play-things,  though 
it  were  by  mistake,  she  would  be  out  of  temper  for 
hours,  and  murmur  about  the  house  as  though  she  had 
been  robbed.     If  any  one  attempted  to  correct  her, 


?)•>  LOOKING-GLASS. 

though  In  the  most  gentle  manner,  she  would  fly  into  a 
rage,  equalled  only  by  the  fury  of  contending  elements, 
and  the  uproar  of  the  angry  billows  of  the  ocean. 
Her  father  and  mother  saw  this  unaccountable  change 

with  inexpressible  sorrow  ;  for  neither  they,  nor  any 
one  in  the  house,  could  now  bear  with  her.  Indeed, 
she  would  sometimes  seem  sensible  of  her  errors,  and 
would  often  shed  tears  in  private,  on  seeing  herself  thus 
become  the  object  of  contempt  to  every  one,  not  ex- 
cepting her  parents  ;  but  an  ill  habit  had  got  the  better 
of  her  temper,  and  she  consequently  every  day  grew 
Worse  and  worse. 

One  evening,  which  happened  to  be  new  year's  eve, 
she  saw  her  mother  going  towards  her  room,  with  a 
basket  under  her  cloak.  Rosina  followed  her  mother, 
who  ordered  her  to  £10  back  to  the  parlor  immediately. 
As  Rosina  went  thither,  she  threw  about  all  the  stools 
and  chairs  that  came  in  her  way. 

About  half  an  hour  after,  her  mamma  sent  for  her, 
and  great  indeed  was  her  surprize  on  seeing  the  room  \ 
lighted  up  with  a  number  of  candles,  and  the  table  cov- 
ered with  the  most  elegant  toys. 

Her  mother  called  to  her,  and  desired  her  to  read,  in 
a  bit  of  paper  which  she  gave  her,  for  whom  those  toys 
wen-  intended,  on  which  she  read  the  following  words 
in  large  letters :  '  For  an  amiable  little  girl,  in  return 
for  her  good  behavior. '  Rosina  looked  down,  and  could 
not  say  a  word.  On  her  mother's  asking  her,  for  whom 
those  toys  were  intended,  she  replied.,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  that  they  could  not  be  intended  for  her. 

Her  parent  then  shewed  her  another  paper,  desirirTg 
her  to  see  if  that  did  not  concern  her.  Rosina  took  it, 
and  read  as  follows  :    '  For  a  frowarU  little  girl,  who  is 


LOOKING-GLASS.  y3 

sensible  of  her  faults,  and  in  beginning  anew  year  will 
take  pains  to  amend  them.'  Rosina,  instantly  throwing 
herself  into  her  mother's  arms,  and  crying  bitterly,  said, 
'  O  !  that  is  I,  that  is  I.'  The  tears  also  fell  from  her 
parent's  eyes,  partly  for  sorrow  on  account  of  her 
daughter's  faults,  and  partly  through  joy  in  the  pro- 
mising hope  of  her  amendment. 

6  Come  Rosina,  (said  she  to  her,  after  a  short  pause) 
and  take  what  was  intended  for  you,  and  may  God, 
who  has  heard  your  resolution,  give  you  ability  to  ful- 
fil it.'  Rosina,  however,  insisted  on  it,  that  it  belong- 
ed to  the  person  described  in  the  first  paper,  and  there- 
fore desired  her  mamma  to  keep  those  things  for  her 
till  she  answered  that  description .  This  answer  <rave 
her  mother  a  deal  of  pleasure,  and  she  immediately  put 
all  the  toys  into  a  drawer,  giving  the  key  of  it  to  Rosi- 
na, and  telling  her  to  open  the  drawer,  whenever  she 
should  think  proper  so  to  do. 

Several  weeks  passed  without  the  least  complaint 
against  Rosina,  who  had  performed  wonders  of  herself 
She  then  went  to  her  mamma,  threw  her  arms  round 
her  neck,  and  asked  her  if  she  thought  she  had  any 
right  to  open  the  drawer.  *  Yes,  my  dear,  (said  her 
mother,  clasping  her  tenderly  in  her  arms)  you  may 
now  open  the  drawer  with  great  propriety.  But  pray  tell 
me  how  you  have  so  well  managed  to  get  the  better  of 
your  temper  ?'  Rosina  sad  it  cost  her  a  deal  of  trouble  ; 
but  every  morning  and  evening,  and  indeed  almost 
every  hour  in  the  day,  she  prayed  to  God  to  assist  her. 

Her  mother  shed  tears  of  delight  on  this  occasion  ; 
and  Rosina  became  not  only  mistress  of  the  toys,  but 
of  the  affections  of  ail  her  friends  and  acquaintances. 
Her  mother  related  this  happy  change  in  the  temper  of 


<H  LOOKING-GLASS. 

her  daughter  in  the  presence  of  a  little  miss,  who  gave 
way  to  the  same  unhappy  disposition  ;  when  the  little 
girl  was  so  struck  with  the  relation  of  it,  that  she  im- 
mediately determined  to  set  about  the  work  of  refor- 
mation, in  order  to  become  as  amiable  as  Rosina  Her 
attempt  was  not  made  in  vain,  and  Rosina  had  the  sa- 
tisfaction to  find,  that  in  being  useful  to  herself,  she  had 
contributed  to  make  others  happy.  My  youthful  read- 
ers, if  any  of  you  labor  under  bad  habits,  set  about  a 
reformation  immediately,  lest  you  become  hardened  by 
time,  and  thus  totally  destroy  your  present  and  future 
happiness. 

LOVELY,  lasting  peace  of  mind  .' 
Sweet  delight  of  human  kind  ! 
Heav'nly  born,  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  fav'rites  of  the  sky 
With  more  of  happiness  below 
Than  victors  in  a  triumph  know  ! 
Whither,   O  whither  art  thou  fled, 
To  lay  thy  meek  contented  head  ! 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calm  and  ease  ? 

Lovely,   lasting  Peace  !   appear  : 
This  world  itself  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
And  man  contains  it  in  li is  breast, 

'Twas  thus  as  under  shade  I  stood, 
I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood, 
And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceivM 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  wav'd  : 
It  seeni'd  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confess'd  the  presence  of  the  Grace  : 
When  thus  she  spoke— '  Go  rule  thy  will, 
*  Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still ; 
'  Know  God — and  bring  thy  heart  to  know 
'  The  joys  which  from  religion  flow  ; 
'  Then  eV'ry  Grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
'  And  I'll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest.' 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


95 


o 


LITTLE  ANTHONY. 

N  one  of  those  fine  mornings,  which  the  month  of 
June  frequently  affords  us,  little  Anthony  was  busily 
employed  in  preparing  to  set  out  with  his  father  on  a 
party  of  pleasure,  which,  for  several  days  before,  had 
engrossed  all  his  attention.  Though,  in  general,  he 
found  it  very  difficult  to  rise  earl)*,  yet  this  morning 
he  got  up  soon,  without  being  called,  so  much  was 
his  mind  fixed  on  the  intended  jaunt. 

It  often  happens,  with  young  people  in  particular, 
that,  alien  a  sudden,  they  lose  the  object  they  flatter 
themselves  they  were  almost  in  possession  of.  So  it 
fared  with  little  Anthony  ;  for  just  as  they  were  ready 
to  set  out,  the  sky  darkened  all  at  once,  the  clouds 
grew  thick,  and  a  tempestuous  wind  bent  down  the 
tree^,  and  raised  a  cloud  of  dust. 

Little  Anthony  was  running  down  trie  garden  every 
'minute  to  see  how  the  sky  looked,  and  then  jumped  up 
stairs  to  examine  the  barometer;  -but  neither  the  sky 
HOT/tae  barometer  seemed  to  forbade  anv  thing  in  his 


SO  LOOKING-GLASS. 

favor.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  he  gave  his  father  the 
most  flattering  hopes  that  it  would  still  be  a  fair  day, 
and  that  these  unfavorable  appearances  would  soon  dis- 
perse. He  doubted  not  but  it  would  be  one  of  the  finest 
days  in  the  world ;  and  1*3  therefore  thought,  that  the 
sooner  they  set  out  the  better,  as  it  would  be  a  pity  to 
Jose  a  moment  of  their  time. 

His  father,  however,  did  not  choose  to  be  too  hasty 
in  giving  credit  to  his  son^s  predictions,  and  thought  it 
more  adviseableto  wait  a  little.  While  Anthony  and  his 
father  were  reasoning  on  this  matter  the  clouds  burst, 
and  down  came  a  very  heavy  shower  of  rain.  Poor 
Anthony  was  now  doubly  disappointed,  and  vented 
his  grief  in  tears,  refusing  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  con- 
solation. 

The  rain  continued  without  intermission,  till  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  clouds  began  to  dis- 
perse, the  sun  resumed  its  splendor,  the  element  its 
clearness,  and  all  nature  breathed  the  odors  of  t  he 
spring.  As  die  weather  brightened,  so  did  the  counte- 
nance of  little  Anthony,  and  by  degrees  he  recovered 
his  good  humor. 

His  father  now  thought  it  necessary  to  indulge  him 
with  a  little  walk,  and  off  they  set.  The  calmness  of 
the  air,  the  music  of  the  feathered  songsters,  the  live- 
ly and  enchanting  verdure  of  the  fields,  and  the  sweet 
perfumes  that  breathed  all  round  them,  completely 
quieted  and  composed  the  troubled  heart  of  the  disap- 
pointed Anthony.  l  Do  you  not  observe,  (said  his  fa- 
ther to  him)  how  agreeable  is  the  change  of  every  thing 
before  you  ?  You  cannot  have  yet  forgotten  how  dull 
every  thing  appeared  to  us  yesterday  ;  the  ground 
was  parched  up  for  want  ofrai:;  ;  the  flowers  had  lost 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


S7 


their  color,  and  hung  their  heads  in  languor  ;  and,  in 
short,  all  nature  seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  inaction. 
What  can  be  the  reason,  that  nature  has  so  suddenly- 
put  on  such  a  different  aspect  V — '  That  is  easily  ac- 
counted for,  Sir,  (said  Anthony)  it  undoubtedly  is  occa- 
sioned by  the  rain  that  has  fallen  to-day.'' 

Anthony  had  no  sooner  pronounced  these  words, 
than  he  saw  his  father's  motive  for  asking  him  the  ques- 
tion. He  now  plainly  perceived  the  impropriety  of 
his  late  conduct,  in  being  so  unhappy  about  what  was 
evidently  so  universally  serviceable.  He  blushed,  but 
his  father  took  no  notice  of  it,  judging  that  his  own 
sense  would  sufficiently  teach  him  another  time,  with- 
out reluctance,  to  sacrifice  selfish  pleasure  to  the  gene- 
ral good  of  the  community  at  large* 

NATURE  attend  !  join,  every  living  soul 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  adoration  join  ;  and  ardent  raise 
One  general  song  !.  To  him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  freshness  breathes  : 
Oh  talk  of  him  in  solitary  glooms, 
Where  o'er  the  rock  the  scarcely  waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe  ! 
And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 
Who  shake  the  astonish'd  world,  lift  high  to  heav'ft 
The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage. 
His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills  : 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 


53 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  JONATHAN,  THE  GARDEN Ett. 

AN  the  city  of  Lincoln  lived  an  honest  and  industrious 
gardener,  whose  name  was  Jonathan,  and  who  was  in 
general  considered  as  the  most  skilful  in  his  profession 
ot  any  in  that  country.  His  fruits  were  much  larger 
than  any  of  his  neighbors,  and  were  generally  suppo- 
sed to  have  a  more  exquisite  flavor. 

It  was  the  pride  of  all  the  neighboring  gentlemen  to 
have  Jonathan's  fruits  to  form  their  deserts,  so  that  he 
was  under  no  necessity  of  sending  the  produce  of  his 
garden  to  market,  as  he  was  always  sure  of  meeting 
with  a  sale  for  them  at  home.  13 is  prudence  and  assi- 
duity increased  as  his  good  fortune  enlarged,  and, 
instead  of  riches  making  him  idle,  he  attended  more 
closejy  to  cultivation. 

Such  a  character  and  situation  could  not  fail  of  pro- 
curing hini  a  suitable  matrimonial  mate,  and  he  ac- 
cording!)' married  a  young  woman  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, whose  name  was  Bella,  and  who  was  both  pru- 
dent and  handsome,     The  first  year  of  their  marriage 


LOOKING-GLASS.  & 

was  as  comfortable  as  they  could  wish  for ;  for  Bella 
assisted  ber  husband  in  his  business,  and  every  thing 
prospered  with  them. 

This  happiness,  however,  was  not  to  last  long  ;  for 
near  his  house  lived  another  gardener,  whose  name  was 
Guzzle,  and  who  spent  his  time,  from  morning  to  night, 
in  an  alehouse.  The  merry  and  thoughtless  humor  of 
Guzzle  by  degrees  began  to  be  pleasing  to  Jonathan, 
who  soon  fell  into  the  same  ruinous  error.  At  first,  he 
only  went  now  and  then  to  drink  with  him,  and  talk  to 
him  about  gardening  ;  but  he  very  soon  began  to  drop 
the  subject  of  plants,  and  delight  only  in  the  praises  of 
malt. 

Bella  saw  this  change  in  her  husband  with  the  utmost 
grief  and  consternation.  As  yet,  not  having  sufficient 
experience  to  attend  the  wall-fruit  herself,  she  was  fre- 
quently obliged  to  fetch  him  home  to  his  work,  when 
she  generally  found  him  in  a  state  of  intoxication.  It 
would  often  have  been  better  had  he  kept  out  of  the 
garden  than  gone  in  it ;  for  his  head  was  generally  so 
muddled  with  beer  when  he  went  to  work  on  his  trees, 
that  his  pruning-knife  committed  the  greatest  depreda- 
tions, cutting  away  those  branches  which  ought  to  have 
been  left,  and  leaving  those  that  were  useless. 

Hence  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  the  garden 
fell  off  in  the  quality  and  quantity  of  its  fruit,  and  the 
more  Jonathan  perceived  the  decay,  the  more  he  gave 
himself  up  to  drinking.  As  his  garden  gradually  fail- 
ed in  procuring  him  the  means  of  getting  strong  liquor, 
he  fYrst  parted  with  his  furniture,  and  then  with  his  lin- 
en and  clothes. 

Bella,  in  the  mean  time,  did  what  little  she  could  to 
keep  things  together  ;  but  all  to  no  purpose,    One  day,. 


100  LOOKING-GLASS. 

when  she  was  gone  to  market  with  some  roots  she  had 
reared  herself,  he  went  and  sold  his  working  utensils, 
and  immediately  went  and  spent  all  with  Guzzle.  Judge 
what  must  be  the  situation  of  poor  Bella  on  her  return ! 
It  was  indeed  a  heart-breaking  consideration  to  be  thus 
reduced  to  poverty  by  the  folly  of  her  husband  ;  but 
yet  she  loved  him,  and  equally  felt  for  him  as  for  her- 
self, but  still  more  for  an  infant,  as  yet  but  six  months 
old,  and  which  received  its  nourishment  from  her  breast. 

In  the  evening,  Jonathan  came  home  drunk,  and 
swearing  at  his  wife,  asked  her  for  something  to  eat. 
Bella  handed  him  a  knife,  and  put  before  him  a  large 
basket  covered  with  her  apron;  Jonathan  in  a  pet  pulled 
away  the  apron ;  but  his  astonishment  was  inexpressible, 
when  he  beheld  nothing  in  the  basket  but  his  own  child 
fast  asleep.  i  Eat  that,  (said  Bella)  for  I  have  nothing  else 
to  give  you.  It  is  your  own  child,  and  if  you  do  not 
devour  it,  famine  and  misery  will  in  a  short  time.' 

Jonathan  seemed  almost  petrified  into  a  stone  at 
these  words,  and  for  some  time  remained  speechless, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  little  sleeping  son.  At  last 
recovering  himself,  quite  sobered,  his  heart  eased  itself 
in  tears  and  lamentations.  He  rose  and  embraced  his 
wife,  asked  her  pardon,  and  promised  to  amend  ;  and 
what  was  still  better,  he  was  faithful  to  his  promise. 

Though  his  wife's  father  had  for  some  time  refused 
to  see  him,  yet  on  being  made  acquainted  with  his  pro- 
mises of  reformation,  he  advanced  money  sufficient 
to  enable  him  to  restore  his  garden  to  its  former  state. 
Jonathan  did  not  deceive  him  ;  for  his  garden  'put 
on  another  appeara  nee,  and  cut  a  more  splendid  figure 
than  ever.  After  this,  neither  his  prudence  or  activi- 
ty forsook  him,  but  he  became  at  once,  and  continued 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


ioj 


so  even  to  old  age,  the  honest  man,  the  indulgent  hus- 
band, and  the  tender  father.  He  would  sometimes  tell 
this  tale  of  his  follies  to  his  son,  as  a  lesson  to  him,  how 
dangerous  it  is  to  get  connected  with  bad  company,  and 
how  easily  human  nature  is  led  astray  by  the  poison  of 
example.  The  son,  who  thus  acquired  knowledge  at 
the  father's  former  expence,  became  a  wise  and  prudent 
man,  and  conceivedggpch  an  aversion  to  idleness  and 
drinking,  that  he  continued  all  his  life  as  sober  as  he 
was  laborious.  Thus  was  an  innocent  infant  the  cause 
of  reformation  in  a  deluded  father. 

GREAT  Heav*n  !  how  frail  thy  creature  Man  is  made  \ 

How  by  hims  elf  insensibly  betrayM  ! 

.In  our  own  strength  unhappily  secure, 

Too  little  cautious  of  the  adverse  pow'r  ; 

And,  by  the  blast  of  self-opinion  mov\1, 

"We  wish  to  charm  and  seek  to  be  belov'd, 

On  pleasure's  flow'ry  brink  we  idly  stray, 

Masters  as  yet  of  our  returning  way : 

Seeing  no  danger,  we  disarm  our  mind, 

And  give  our  conduct  to  the  waves  and  wind  ; 

Then  in  the  flow'ry  mead,  or  verdant  shade, 

To  wanton  dalliance  negligently  laid, 

We  weave  the  chaplet,  and  we  crown  the  bowl, 

And  smiling,  see  the  nearer  waters  roll ; 

Till  the  strong  gusts  of  passion  rise, 

Till  the  dire  tempest  mingles  earth  and  skies; 

And,  swift  into  the  boundless  ocean  borne, 

Our  foolish  confidence  too  late  we  mourn  : 

Round  our  devoted  heads  the  billows  beat; 

And  from  our  troubled  view  the  lessen'd  lands  retreat. 


tO'J 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


THE  SPARROW'S  NEST. 

JDILLY  lessamy,  having  one  day  espied  a  sparrow's 
nest  under  the  eves  of  the  house,  ran  directly  to  inform 
his  sisters  of  the  important  discovery,  and  they  imme- 
diately fell  into  consultation  concerning  the  manner  in 
which  they  should  take  it.  It  was  at  last  agreed,  that 
they  should  wait  till  the  young  ones  were  fledged,  that 
Billy  should  then  get  a  ladder  up  against  the  wall,  and 
that  his  sisters  should  hold  it  fast  below,  while  he 
mounted  after  the  prize. 

As  soon  as  they  thought  these  poor  little  creatures 
were  properly  Hedged,  preparations  were  made  for 
the  execution  of  their  intended  plan.  The  old  birds 
flew  backwards"  and  forwards  about  the  nest,  and  ex- 
pressed, as  well  as  they  were  able,  the  sorrow  and  af- 
fliction they  felt  on  being  robbed  of  their  young.  Bil- 
ly and  his  two  sisters,  however,  paid  no  regard  to  their 
piteous  moans  ;  for  they  took  the  nest,  with  three 
young  ones  in  it. 

As  they  had  now  got  the  innocent  prisoners  in  their 


LOOKING-fejLASS.  103 

possession,  the  next  thing  to  be  considered  was  what 
they  should  do  with  them.  The  younger  sister,  being  of 
a  mild  and  tender-hearted  disposition,  proposed  put- 
ting them  into  a  cage,  promising  to  look  after  them 
herself,  and  to  see  that  they  wanted  for  nothing.  She 
reminded  her  brother  and  sister  how  pretty  it  would 
be  to  see  and  hear  those  birds  when  grown  up. 

Billy,  however,  was  of  a  very  different  opinion  ; 
for  he  insisted  on  it,  that  it  would  be  better  to  pluck 
off  their  feathers,  and  then  set  them  down  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  as  it  would  be  very  fanny  to  see  how 
they  weald  hop  about  without  feathers.  The  elder 
sister  was  of  the  same  way  of  thinking  as  the  young- 
er;  but  Billy  was  determined  to  have  the  matter  en- 
tirely his  own  way. 

.  The  two  little  ladies  finding  they  were  not  likely  to 
have  things  as  they  wished,  gave  up  the  point  without 
much  hesitation  ;  for  Billy  had  already  begun  to  strip 
the  poor  helpless  birds.  As  fast  as  he  plucked  them, 
he  put  them  down  on  the  floor,  and  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore the  little  birds  were  stripped  of  all  their  tender 
feathers.  The  poor  things  cried,  Weet  I  IVeet  I  and 
complained  in  the  most  piteous  accents  ;  they  shook 
their  little  wings  and  shuddered  with  the  cold. 

Billy,  however,  who  had  not  the  least  kind  of  feel- 
ing for  their  sufferings,  carried  his  persecutions  stiil 
further,  pushing  them  with  his  toe  to  make  them  go 
on  when  they  stopped,  and  laughing  most  heartily 
whenever  they  staggered  or  tumbled  down  through 
weakness.  Though  Ms  two  sisters  at  first  setting  off 
had  pleaded  against  this  cruel  kind  of  sport,  yet  see- 
ing their  brother  so  merry  on  the  occasion,  they  for- 
got  their  foUaer  -dictates  of  humanity,  a;nd  joined    . 


104  tdoKmo-GLAsa 

the  cruel  sport  with  him.  Such,  as  we  saw  in  the  pre- 
ceding tale,  is  the  influence  of  bad  example. 

In  the  midst  of  this  cruel  kind  of  enjoyment,  at  a 
distance  they  saw  their  tutor  approaching.  This  put 
them  into  some  flurry,  and  each  pocketed  a  bird. 
They  would  have  avoided  their  tutor,  but  he  called  to 
them,  and  asked  their  reason  for  wishing  to  shun  him. 
They  approached  him  very  slowly,  a\  ith  their  eyes 
cast  downwards,  which  convinced  him  that  something 
amiss  was  going  forwards. 

On  their  answering  that  they  Avere  only  playing, 
their  tutor  observed  to  them,  that  they  very  well  knew 
he  never  denied  them  innocent  amusement,  but  on  the 
contrary  was  always  glad  to  see  them  chearful  and 
happy.  He  took  notice  that  each  held  one  of  their 
hands  in  their  pocket,  upon  which  he  insisted  on  their 
puiiing  them  out,  and  letting  him  see  what  it  was 
they  endeavored  to  conceal. 

They  were  obliged  to  comply,  much  against  their 
will,  when  each  produced  a  poor  bird  that  had  been 
stripped  of  its  feathers.  The  tutor  was  filled  with 
pity  and  indignation,  and  gave  each  of  them  a  look, 
that  was  more  dreadful  than  any  words  he  could  have 
spoken.  After  some  silence,  Billy  attempted  to  jus- 
tify himself  by  sa}7ing,  that  it  was  a  droll  sight  to  see 
sparrows  hopping  about  without  feathers,  and  ho 
could  see  no  harm  in  it. 

'  Can  you  then,  (said  the  tutor  to  Billy)  take  plea-, 
sure  in  seeing  innocent  creatures  suffer,  and  hear  their 
cries  without  pity  ?'  Billy  said,  he  did  not  see  how 
they  could  suffer  from  having  a  few  feathers  pulled 
off.  The  tutor,  to  convince  him  of  his  error,  pulled 
a  few  hairs  from  his  head,  when  he  roared  out  loudljl 


LOOKING-GLASS.  105 

that  he  hurt  him.  '  What  would  your  pain  be  then, 
(said  the  tutor)  where  I  thus  to  pluck  all  the  hair  off 
your  head  ?  You  are  sensible  of  the  pain  you  now 
feel,  but  you  was  insensible  of  the  torment  to  which 
you  put  those  innocent  creatures  that  never  offended 
you.  But  that  you,  ladies,  should  join  in  such  an  act 
of  cruelty,  very  much  surprises  me  ! ' 

The  ladies  stood  motionless,  and  then,  without  be- 
ing able  to  say  a  word,  sat  down  with  their  eyes  swim- 
ming in  tears  ;  which  their  tutor  observing,  he  said  no 
more  to  them.  But  Billy  still  persisted  in  his  opinion 
that  he  did  the  birds  no  harm  ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
said,  they  shewed  their  pleasure  by  clapping  their 
wings  and  chirping. 

'  They  clapped  their  wings  (said  the  tutor)  from 
the  pain  you  put  them  to  ;  and  what  you  call  singing, 
were  cries  and  lamentations.  Could  those  birds  have 
expressed  themselves  in  your  speech,  you  would  have 
heard  them  cry,  Ah,  father  and  mother,  save  us,  for 
we  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  cruel  children,  who 
have  robbed  us  of  all  our  feathers  !  We  are  cold  and 
in  pain.  Come  warm  us  and  cure  us,  or  we  shall  soon 
die!' 

The  little  ladies  could  no  longer  refrain  from  tears, 
and  accused  Billy  of  leading  them  into  this  act  of  cru- 
elty. Billy  was  himself  become  sensible  of  his  faults, 
and  had  alreadv  felt  the  smart  of  having  a  few  hairs 
plucked  from  his  head  ;  but  the  reproaches  of  his  own 
heart  were  now  visible  on  his  countenance.  It  appear- 
ed to  the  tutor,  that  there  was  no  need  of  carrying  the 
punishment  any  further ;  for  the  error  Billy  had  com- 
mitted did  not  arise  from  a  natural  love  of  cruelty, 
but  merely  from  want  of  thought  and  reflection,  Froja 


10i>  LOOKING-GLASS. 

tliis  moment  BiWy,  instead  of  punishing  aud  torment- 
ing dumb  creatures,  always  felt  for  their  distresses, 
and  did  what  he  could  to  relieve  them. 

'  WHEN  returning  with  her  loaded  bill, 
The  astonish 'd  mother  finds  u  vacant  nest, 
By  the  hard  hand  of  unrelenting  clowns 
Robb'd  :  to  the  ground  the  vain  provision  falls  ; 
Her  pinions  ruffle,  and,  low-drooping,  scarce 
Can  bear  the  mourner  to  the  poplar  shade  ; 
Where,  all  abandoned  to  despair,  she  sings 
Her  sorrows  through  the  night,  and  on  the  boughs 
Sole  sitting  ;  still,  at  every  dying  fall, 
Takes  up  again  her  lamentable  strain 
Of  winding  woe,  till,  wTide  around,  the  woods 
Sigh  to  her  song,  and  with  her  wail  resound/ 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 
(Though  graced  with  poiish'd  manners  and  fine  sense 
Yet  wanting  sensibility^l.he  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 
That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path, 
But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarned. 
Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 
Ye  therefore  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 
To  love  it  too.     The  spring  time  of  our  years 
Is  soon  dishonor'd  and  defil'd  inmost 
By  budding  ills,  that  ask  a  prudent  hand 
To  check  them.     But  alas  !   none  sooner  shoots, 
If  unrestfain'd,  into  luxuriant  growth, 
Than  cruelty,  most  dev'lisb  of  them  all, 
Mercy  to  him  that  shews  it,  is  the  rule 
And  righteous  limitation  of  its  act, 
i>y  which  beav'n  moves  in  pardoning  guilty  man  ; 
And  lie  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years. 
And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits, 
Shall  beek  it,  and  not  find  it  in  hio  turn. 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


101 


WILLIAM  AND  THOMAS ;  OR,  THE  CONTRAST  BE- 
TWEEN INDUSTRY  AND  INDOLENCE, 

AN  a  village  at  a  small  distance  from  the  metropolis, 
lived  a  wealthy  husbandman,  who  had  two  sons,  Wil- 
liam and  Thomas1,  of  whom  the  former  was  exactly  a 
year  older  than  the  latter. 

On  the  day  that  the  second  son  was  bom,  the  hus- 
bandman set  in  his  orchard  two  young  apple-trees  of 
an  equal  size,  on  which  he  bestowed  the  same  care  in 
cultivating,  and  they  throve  so  much  alike,  that  it  was 
a  difficult  matter  to  say  which  claimed  the  preference. 

As  soon  as  the  children  were  capable  of  using  gar- 
den implements,  their  father  took  them,  on  a  fine  day 
early  in  the  spring,  to  see  the  two  plants  he  had  rear- 
ed for  them,  and  called  after  their  names.  William 
and  Thomas  having  much  admired  the  beauty  of  these 
trees,  now  filled  with  blossoms,  their  father  told  them, 
that  he  made  them  a  present  of  them  in  good  condi- 
tion, and  that  they  would  continue  to  thrive  or  decay, 
in  proportion  to  the  labor  or  neglect  they  received. 


10$  LOOKING-GLASS. 

Thomas,  though  the  younger  son,  turned  all  his  at- 
tention to  the  improvement  of  his  tree,  by  clearing  it 
of  insects  as  soon  as  he  discovered  them,  and  prop- 
ping up  the  stein  that  it  might  grow  perfectly  upright. 
He  dug  all  around  it,  to  loosen  the  earth,  that  the 
root  might  receive  nourishment  from  the  warmth  of 
the  sun,  and  the  moisture  of  the  dews.  No  mother 
could  nurse  her  child  more  tenderly  in  its  infancy a 
than  Thomas  did  his  tree. 

His  brother  William,  however,  pursued  a  very  dif- 
ferent conduct  ;  for  he  loitered  away  all  his  time  in  the 
most  idle  and  mischievous  manner,  one  of  his  princi- 
pal amusements  being  to  throw  stones  at  people  as 
they  passed.  He  kept  company  with  all  the  idle  boys 
in  the  neighborhood,  with  whom  he  was  continually 
fighting,  and  was  seldom  without  either  a  black  eye  or 
a  broken  shin.  His  poor  tree  was  neglected,  and  ne- 
ver thought  of,  till  one  day  in  the  autumn,  when,  by 
chance,  seeing  his  brother's  tree  loaded  with  the  finest 
apples,  and  almost  ready  to  break  down  with  the 
weight,  he  ran  to  his  own  tree,  not  doubting  but  he 
should  find  it  in  the  same  pleasing  condition. 

Great  indeed  was  his  disappointment  and  surprise, 
When,  instead  of  finding  the  tree  loaded  with  excel- 
lent, fruit,  he  beheld  nothing  but  a  few  withered  leaves, 
and  branches  covered  with  moss.  He  instantly  went 
to  his  father,  and  complained  of  his  partiality  in  giv- 
ing him  a  tree  that  was  worthless  and  barren,  while  his 
brother's  produced  the  most  luxuriant  fruit.  He  there- 
fore thought,  that  his  brother  should,  at  least,  give 
him  one-half  of  his  apples. 

His  father  told  him,  that  it  wras  by  no  means  reason- 
able, that  the  industrious  should  give  up  part  of  their 


LOOKING-GLASS.  10$ 

labor  to  feed  the  idle.  '  If  your  tree,  (said  he)  has 
produced  you  nothing,  it  is  but  a  just  reward  of  your 
indolence,  since  you  see  what  the  industry  of  your 
brother  has  gained  him.  Your  tree  was  equally  full 
of  blossoms,  and  grew  in  the  same  soil ;  but  you  paid 
no  attention  to  the  culture  of  it.  Your  brother  suffer* 
ed  no  visible  insect  to  remain  on  his  tree  ;  but  you 
neglected  that  caution,  and  left  them  even  to  eat  up 
the  very  buds.  As  I  cannot  bear  to  see  even  plants 
perish  through  neglect,  I  must  now  take  this  tree  from 
you,  and  give  it  to  your  brother,  whose  care  and  at- 
tention may  possibly  restore  it  to  its  former  vigor.  The 
fruit  it  shall  produce  must  be  his  property,  and  you 
must  no  longer  consider  yourself  as  having  any  right 
therein.  However,  you  may  go  to  my  nursery,  and 
there  choose  any  other,  which  you  may  like  better,  and 
try  what  you  can  do  with  it ;  but  if  you  neglect  to  take 
proper  care  of  it,  I  shall  also  take  that  from  you,  and 
give  it  to  your  brother,  as  a  reward  for  his  superior 
industry  and  attention.' 

This  had  the  desired  effect  on  William,  who  clear- 
ly perceived  the  justice  and  propriety  of  his  father's 
reasoning,  and  instantly  got  into  the  nursery  to  choose 
the  most  thriving  apple-tree  he  could  there  meet  with. 
His  brother  Thomas  assisted  him  in  the  culture  of  his 
tree,  advising  him  in  what  manner  to  proceed;  and 
William  made  the  best  use  of  his  time,  and  the  in- 
structions he  received  from  his  brother.  He  left  off 
all  his  mischievous  tricks,  forsook  the  company  of  idle 
boys,  applied  himself  chearfully  to  work,  and  in  au- 
tumn received  the  reward  of  his  labor,  his  tree  being- 
then  loaded  with  fruit. 

From  this  happy  change  in  his  conduct  he  derived 
K 


110  LOOKING-GLASS. 

the  advantage,  not  only  of  enriching  himself  with  a 
plentiful  crop  of  fruit,  but  also  of  getting  rid  of  bad 
and  pernicious  habits.  His  father  was  so  perfectly  sa- 
tisfied with  his  reformation,  that  the  following  season 
he  gave  him  and  his  brother  the  produce  of  a  small 
orchard,  which  they  shared  equally  between  them. 

'TIS  the  voice  of  a  sluggard — I  heard  him  complain, 
'You  have  wak'd  me  too  soon,  I  must  slumber  again  ;J 
As  the  dooi  on  its  hinges,  so  he  on  his  bed, 
Turns  his  sides,  and  his  shoulders,  and  his  heavy  head. 

'  A  little  more  sleep,  and  a  little  more  slumber  ;' 
Thus  he  wastes  half  his  days,  and  his  hours  without  number  \ 
And  when  he  gets  up  he  sits  folding  his  hands. 
Or  walks  about  sauntering,  or  trifling  he  stands. 

I  pass'd  by  his  garden,  and  saw  the  wild  briar, 
The  thorn  and  the  thistle,  grow  broader  and  higher; 
The  clothes  that  hang  on  him  are  turning  to  rags  ; 
And  his  money  still  wastes,  till  he  starves  or  he  begs. 

I  made  him  a  visit,  still  hoping  to  find 
He  had  took  better  care  for  improving  his  mind  ; 
He  told  me  his  dreams,  talk'd  of  eating  and  drinking, 
But  he  scarce  reads  his  bible,  and  never  loves  thinking, 

Said  I  to  my  heart,  « Here's  a  lesson  for  me  ; 
That  man's  but  a  picture  of  what  I  might  be  ; 
But  thanks  to  my  friends  for  their  care  in  my  breeding, 

Who  taught  me  "betimes  to  love  working  and  reading  !' 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


ni 


MISCHIEF  ITS   OV/N  PUNISHMENT*.    EXEMPLIFIED 
IN  THE  HISTORY  OF  WILLIAM  AND  HARRY. 

iVlR.  Stevenson  and  his  little  Son  Richard,  as  they 
were  one  fine  day  walking  in  the  fields  together,  pas- 
sed by  the  side  of  a  garden,  in  which  they  saw  a  beau- 
tiful  pear  tree  loaded  with  fruit.  Richard  cast  a  long- 
ing eye  at  it,  and  complained  to  his  papa  that  he 
was  very  dry.  On  Mr,  Stevenson's  saying,  that  he 
was  dry  also,  but  they  must  bear  it  with  patience  till 
they  got  home,  Richard  pointed  to  the  pear  tree,  and 
begged  his  papa  would  let  him  go  and  get  one;  for, 
as  the  hedge  was  not  very  thick,  he  said  he  could  easily 
get  through,   without  being  seen  by  any  one. 

Richard's  father  reminded  him,  that  the  garden  and 
fruit  were  private  property ,^and  to  take  any  thing 
from  thence  without  permission  was  nothing  else  than 
being  guilty  of  a  robbery.  He  allowed  that  there 
might  be  a  possibility  of  getting  into  the  garden  with-* 
out  being  seen  by  the  owner  of  it  ;  but  such  a  wicked 
action  could  not  be  concealed  from  him,   who  sees  eve- 


U2  LOOKING-GLASS. 

ry  action  of  our  lives,  and  who  penetrates  even  into  the 
very  secrets  of  our  hearts  ;   and  that  is  God. 

His  son  shook  his  head,  and  said,  he  was  sensible  of 
his  error,  and  would  no  more  think  of  committing 
what  might  be  called  a  robbery.  He  recollected,  that 
parson  Jackson  had  told  him  the  same  thing  before, 
but  he  had  then  forgotten  it. 

At  tliis  instant  a  man  started  up  from  behind  the 
hedge,  which  had  before  concealed  him  from  their  sight. 
This  was  an  old  man,  the  owner  of  the  garden,  who 
had  heard  every  thing  that  had  passed  between  Mr. 
Stevenson  and  his  son.  *  Be  thankful  to  God,  my  child, 
(said  the  old  man)  that  your  father  prevented  your  get- 
ting into  my  garden,  with  a  view  to  deprive  me  of 
that  which  does  not  belong  to  you.  You  little  thought, 
that  at  the  foot  of  each  tree  is  placed  a  trap  to  catch 
thieves,  which  you  could  not  have  escaped,  and  which 
might  have  lamed  you  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  I  am, 
however,  happy  to  find,  that  you  so  readily  listened  to 
the  first  admonition  of  your  father,  and  that  you  shew- 
ed such  a  fear  of  offending  God.  As  you  have  beha- 
ved in  so  just  and  sensible  a  manner,  you  shall  now, 
without  any  danger  or  trouble,  partake  of  the  fruit  of 
my  garden.'  He  then  went  to  the  finest  pair-tree,  gave 
it  a  shake,  and  brought  down  near  a  hatful  of  fruit, 
which  he  immediately  gave  to  Richard.  This  civil  old 
man  could  not  be  prevailed  on  to  accept  of  anything 
in  return,  though  Mr.  Stevenson  pulled  out  his  purse 
for  that  purpose.  *  I  am  sufficiently  satisfied,  Sir, 
(said  he)  in  thus  obliging  your  son,  and  were  I  to  ac- 
cept of  any  thing,  that  satisfaction  would  be  lost.'  Mr. 
Stevenson  thanked  him  very  kindly,  and,  having  sha- 
ken hands  over  the  hedge,  they  parted;  Richard  at  the 


LOOKING-GLASS.  113 

same  time  taking  leave  of  the  old  man  in  a  polite  man- 
ner. 

Little  Richard,  having  finished  several  of  the  pears, 
began  to  find  himself  at  leisure  to  talk  to  his  papa. 
*  This  is  a  very  good  old  man,  (said  he)  but  would  God 
have  punished  me,  had  I  taken  these  pears  without  his 
leave  ?'  '  He  certainly  would,  (replied  Mr.  Stevenson) 
for  he  never  fails  to  reward  good  actions,  and  chastise 
those  who  commit  evil.  The  good  old  man  fully  ex- 
plained to  you  this  matter,  in  telling  you  of  the  traps 
laid  for  tlueves,  into  which  you  must  have  inevitably 
fallen,  had  you  entered  his  garden  in  a  clandestine 
manner.  God  orders  every  thing  that  passes  upon 
•earth,  and  directs  events  so  as  to  reward  good  people 
for  virtuous  actions,  and  to  punish  the  wicked  for  their 
crimes.  In  order  to  make  this  more  clear  to  you,  I 
will  relate  to  you  an  affair  which  happened  when  I  was 
a  boy,  and  which  I  shall  never  forget.'  Richard  seem- 
ed very  attentive  to  his  father,  and  having  said  he 
should  be  very  glad  to  liear  his  story,  Mr.  Stevenson 
thus  proceeded. 

'  When  I  lived  with  my  father,  and  was  much  about 
your  age,  we  had  two  neighbors,  between  whose  hou- 
ses ours  was  situated,  and  their  names  were  Davis  and 
Johnson.  Mr.  Davis  had  a  son  named  William,  and 
Mr.  Johnson  one  also  of  the  name  of  Harry.  Our  gar* 
dens  were  at  that  time  separated  only  by  quickset 
hedges,  so  that  it  was  easy  to  see  into  each  other's 
grounds. 

cIt  was  too  often  the  practise  with  William,  when 
he  found  himself  alone  in  his  father's  garden,  to  take 
pleasure  in  throwing  stones  over  the  hedges,  without 
paying  the  least  regard  to  the  mischief  they  might  do* 


114  LOOKING-GLASS. 

Mr.  Davis  had  frequently  caught  him  at  this  dangerous 
sport,  and  never  tailed  severely  to  reprimand  him  for 
it,  threatening  him  with  severe  punishment  if  he  did 
not  desist. 

<  This  child,  unhappily,  either  knew  not,  or  would 
not  take  the  trouble  to  reflect,  that  we  are  not  to  do 
amiss  even  when  we  are  alone,  for  reasons  I  have  al- 
ready mentioned  to  you.  His  father  being  one  day 
gone  out,  and  therefore  thinking  that  nobody  could  see 
him,  or  bring  him  to  punishment,  he  filled  his  pockets 
with  stones,  and  then  began  to  fling  them  about  at  ran- 
dom. 

'  Mr.  Johnson  happened  to  be  in  his  garden  at  the 
same  time,  and  his  son  Harry  with  him.  This  boy 
was  of  much  the  same  disposition  as  William,  thinking 
there  was  no  crime  in  committing  any  mischief,  pro- 
vided he  was  not  discovered.  Llis  father  had  a  gun 
charged,  which  he  brought  into  the  garden,  in  order 
to  shoot  the  sparrows  that  made  sad  havoc  among  his 
cherries,  and  was  sitting  in  the  summer  house  to  watch 
them. 

'At  this  instant,  a  servant  came  to  acquaint  him 
that  a  strange  gentleman  desired  to  speak  with  him, 
and  was  waiting  in  the  parlor.  He  therefore  put  down 
the  gun  in  the  summer-house,  and  strictly  ordered 
Harry  by  no  means  to  touch  it  ;  but  he  was  no  sooner 
gone,  than  his  naughty  son  said  to  himself,  that  he 
could  see  no  harm  in  playing  a  little  with  the  gun, 
and  therefore  took  it  up,  put  it  on  his  shoulder,  and 
endeavored  to  act  the  part  of  a  soldier. 

6  The  muzzle  of  the  gun  happened  to  be  pointed  to . 
wards  Mr.  Davis's  garden,  and  just  as  he  was  in  the 
midst  of  his   military  exercises,   a  stone  thrown  by 


LOOKING-GLASS.  115 

William  hit  him  directly  in  one  of  his  eyes.  The  fright 
and  pain  together,  made  Harry  drop  the  gun,  which 
went  off,  and  in  a  moment  both  gardens  resounded  with 
the  most  dismal  shrieks  and  lamentations.  Harry  had 
received  a  blow  in  the  eye  with  a  stone,  and  the  whole 
charge  had  entered  William's  leg.  The  sad  consequen- 
ces of  which  were,  the  one  lost  his  eye,  and  the  other 
a  leg.' 

Richard  could  not  help  pitying  poor  William  and 
Harry  for  their  terrible  misfortune ;  and  Mr.  Stevenson 
■was  not  angry  with  his  son  for  his  tenderness.  '  It  is 
true,  (said  he)  they  were  much  to  be  pitied,  and  their 
parents  still  more,  for  having  such  vicious  and  disobe- 
dient children.  Yet  it  is  probable,  if  God  had  not 
early  punished  these  boys,  they  would  have  continued 
their  mischievous  practices  as  often  as  they  should  find 
themselves  alone;  but  by  this  misfortune  they  learned 
to  know,  that  God  publicly  punishes  all  wickedness 
done  in  secret.  This  had  the  desired  effect,  as  both 
ever  after  left  off  all  kinds  of  mischief,  and  became 
prudent  and  sedate.  Certain  it  is,  that  an  all-wise 
Creator  never  chastises  us  but  with  a  view  to  add  to  our 
happiness.' 

Richard  was  very  much  struck  with  this  story,  and 
said  he  hoped  he  should  never  lose  either  a  leg  or  an 
eye  by  such  imprudent  conduct.  This  interesting  con- 
versation was  interrupted  by  their  arrival  at  their  own 
house,  when  Richard  hastened  to  find  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  to  tell  them  the  adventures  of  his  walk,  and  the 
history  of  William  and  Harry. 


US 


LOOKING-ULASS. 


WHY  should  I  deprive  my  neighbor 
Of  his  pears  against  his  will  ? 
Hands  were  made  tor  honest  labor, 
Not  to  plunder  or  to  steal. 

'Tis  a  foolish  self-deceiving, 
By  such  tricks  to  hope  for  gain  : 
All  that's  ever  got  by  thieving 
Turns  to  sorrow,  shame,  an.d  pain. 


Have  not  Eve  and  Adam  taught  us 
Their  sad  profit  to  compute  ? 
To  what  dismal  state  they  brought  us, 
When  they  stole  forbidden  fruit ! 


Oft  we  see  a  young  beginner 
Practise  little  pilPring  ways, 
Till  grown  up  a  hardened  sinner : 
Then  the  gallows  ends  his  days. 

Theft  will  not  be  always  hidden, 
Though  we  fancy  none  can  spy  : 
"When  we  take  a  thing  forbidden, 
God  beholds  it  with  his  e\  e. 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


117 


ANTONY  AND  AUGUSTUS ;  OR,  A  RATIONAL  EDU- 
CATION PREFERABLE  TO  RICHES, 

XjL  VERY  early  friendship  commenced  between 
Antony  and  Augustus,  who  were  nearly  of  an  age, 
and  as  they  were  neighbors,  they  were  almost  insepa- 
rable companions.  The  father  of  Antony,  whose 
name  was  Lenox,  possessed  a  very  lucrative  employ- 
ment under  government,  and  was  besides  possessed  of 
a  considerable  fortune  ;  but  Mr.  Littleton,  the  father 
of  Augustus,  was  not  in  such  affluent  circumstances, 
though  he  lived  contentedly,  and  turned  all  his  thoughts 
to  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  his  son,  in  giving  him  a 
well-grounded  education,  which  he  thought  might 
prove  of  more  advantage  to  him  than  riches,  or,  at  least, 
might  amply  supply  the  place  of  them. 

As  soon  as  Augustus  was  nine  years  of  age,  he  was 
accustomed  to  bodily  exercise,  and  his  mind  inured  to 
study,  which  at  once  contributed  to  improve  his 
health,  strength,  and  understanding.  Being  thus  used 
to  exercise  and  motion,  he  Mas  healthy  and  robust  -9 


118  LOOKING-GLASS. 

and  being  contented  and  happy  in  the  affection  of  his 
parents,  he  enjoyed  a  tranquil  cheerfulness,  which 
much  influenced  those  who  enjoyed  his  company. 

Antony  was  one  of  his  happy  companions,  who  was 
always  at  a  loss  for  amusement  when  Augustus  was  ab~ 
sent  ;  and  in  that  case,  in  order  to  fill  up  his  time,  he 
was  continually  eating  without  being  hungry,  drink- 
ing without  being  dry,  and  slumbering  without  being 
sleepy.  This  naturally  brought  on  a  weak  habit  of 
body,  and  frequent  head-achs. 

Both  parents  ardently  wished  to  see  their  children 
healthy  and  happy ;  but  Mr.  Lenox  unfortunately 
pursued  that  object  in  a  wrong  channel,  by  bringing  up 
his  son,  even  from  his  cradle,  in  the  most  excessive 
delicacy.  He  was  not  suffered  to  lift  himself  a  chair, 
whenever  he  had  a  mind  to  change  his  seat,  but  a  ser- 
vant was  called  for  that  purpose.  He  was  dressed  and 
undressed  by  other  people,  and  even  the  cutting  of 
his  own  victuals  seemed  a  pain  to  him. 

While  Augustus,  in  a  thin  linen  jacket,  assisted  his 
father  to  cultivate  a  small  garden  for  their  amusement, 
Antony,  in  a  rich  velvet  coat,  was  lolling  in  a  coach, 
and  paying  morning  visits  with  his  mamma.  If  he 
went  abroad  to  enjoy  the  air,  and  got  out  of  the  car- 
riage but  for  a  minute,  his  great  coat  was  put  on,  and 
a  handkerchief  tied  round  his  neck,  to  prevent  his 
catching  cold.  Thus  accustomed  to  be  humored  to 
excess,  he  wished  for  every  thing  he  saw  or  could  I 
think  of ;  but  his  wish  was  no  sooner  obtained,  than  he 
became  tired  of  it,  and  was  constantly  unhappy  in  the 
pursuit  of  new  objects. 

As  the  servants  had  strict  orders  to  obey  him  with 
implicit  submission,  he  became  so  whimsical  and  im- 

% 


LOOKING-GLASS.  119 

perions,  that  he  was  hated  and  despised  by  every  one 
in  the  house,  excepting  his  parents.  Augustus  was 
his  only  companion  who  loved  him,  and  it  was  upon 
that  account  he  patiently  put  up  with  his  humors.  He 
was  so  perfectly  master  of  his  temper,  that  he  would 
at  times  make  him  as  good  humored  as  himself. 

Mr.  Lenox  would  sometimes  ask  Augustus,  how  he 
contrived  to  be  always  so  merry  ;  to  which  he  one  day 
answered,  that  his  father  had  told  him,  that  no  person 
could  be  perfectly  happy,  unless  they  mixed  some  kind 
of  employment  with  their  pleasures.  '  I  have  frequent- 
ly observed,  (continued  Augustus)  that  the  most  te- 
dious and  dull  days  I  experience  are  those,  in  which  I 
do  no  kind  of  work*  It  is  properly  blending  exercise 
with  amusement  that  keeps  me  in  such  good  health  and 
spirits.  I  fear  neither  the  winds  nor  the  rain,  neither 
the  heat  of  summer  nor  the  cold  of  winter,  and  I  have 
frequently  dug  up  a  whole  plat  in  my  garden  before 
Antony  has  quitted  his  pillow  in  the  morning.' 

Mr.  Lenox  feit  the  propriety  of  such  conduct,  and 
,  a  sigh  unavoidably  escaped  him.  He  then  went  to 
I  consult  Mr.  Littleton  in  what  manner  he  should  act,  in 
order  to  make  Antony  as  hearty  and  robust  as  Augus- 
tus. Mr.  Littleton  informed  him  in  what  manner  he 
treated  his  son.  '  The  powers  of  the  body  and  the 
mind  (said  he)  should  be  equally  kept  in  exercise,  un- 
less we  mean  them  to  be  unserviceable,  as  money  buri- 
ed in  the  ground  would  be  to  its  owner.  Nothing  can 
T>e  more  injurious  to  the  health  and  happiness  of  chil- 
dren, than  using  them  to  excess  of  delicacy,  and,  un- 
der the  idea  of  pleasing  them,  to  indulge  them  in  their 
whimsical  and  obstinate  humois.  The  person  who  has 
been  accustomed  from  his  childhood  to  have  his,  flatter- 


i:o  LOOKING-GLASS. 

ed,  will  be  exposed  to  many  vexatious  disappointments. 
He  will  sigh  after  those  things,  the  want  or  possession 
of  which  will  equally  make  him  miserable.  I  have, 
however,  every  reason  to  believe,  that  Augustus  will 
never  be  that  man.' 

Mr.  Lenox  saw  the  truth  of  those  arguments,  and 
determined  to  adopt  the  same  plan  for  the  treatment  of 
his  son.  But  it  was  now  too  late,  for  Antony  was  four- 
teen years  of  age,  and  his  mind  and  body  so  much  en- 
ervated, that  he  could  not  bear  the  least  fatiguing  ex- 
ertions. His  mother,  who  was  as  weak  as  himself,  beg- 
ged of  her  husband  not  to  teaze  their  darling,  and  he 
was  at  last  obliged  to  give  way  to  her  importunities, 
when  Antony  again  sunk  into  his  former  destructive  ef- 
feminacy. The  strength  of  his  body  declined,  in  pro- 
portion as  his  mind  was  degraded  by  ignorance. 

As  soon  as  Antony  had  entered  his  seventeenth  year, 
his  parents  sent  him  to  the  university,  intending  to 
bring  him  up  to  the  study  of  the  law  ;  and  Augustus 
being  intended  for  the  same  profession,  he  accompani- 
ed him  thither.  Augustus,  in  his  different  studies  and 
pursuits,  had  never  had  any  other  instructor  than  his 
father  ;  while  Antony  had  as  many  masters  as  there  are 
sciences,  from  whom  he  learned  only  a  superficial  edu- 
cation, by  retaining  little  more  than  the  terms  used  in 
the  different  branches  he  had  studied.  Augustus,  on 
the  contrary,  was  like  a  garden,  whose  airy  situation 
admits  the  rays  of  the  sun  to  every  part  of  it,  and 
which  every  seed,  by  proper  cultivation,  advances  ra- 
pidly to  perfection.  Already  well  instructed,  he  still 
thirsted  after  further  knowledge,  and  his  diligence  and 
good  behavior  afforded  a  pattern  for  imitation  to  all  his 
companions.     The  mildness  of  his  temper,  and  his  vl 


on 
on 

m4 
•a- 


LOOKING-GLASS.  121 

vacity  and  sprightly  humor,  made  his  company  at  all 
times  desirable  ;  he  was  universally  beloved,  and  every 
one  was  his  friend. 

Antony  was  at  first  happy  on  being  in  the  same  room 
with  Augustus  ;  but  his  pride  was  soon  hurt  on  seeing 
the  preference  that  was  given  by  every  one  to  his  friend, 
and  he  could  not  think  of  any  longer  submitting  to  so 
mortifying  a  distinction.  He  therefore  found  some  fri- 
volous excuse,  and  forsook  the  company  of  Augustus. 
Antony,  having  now  nobody  to  advise  or  check  him, 
gave  loose  to  his  vitiated  taste,  and  wandered  from  plea- 
sure to  pleasure  in  search  of  happiness.  It  will  be  to 
little  purpose  to  say,  how  often  he  blushed  at  his  own 
conduct ;  but  being  hardened  by  a  repetition  of  his  fol- 
lies, he  gradually  fell  into  the  grossest  irregularities.  To 
be  short,  he  at  last  returned  home  with  the  seeds  of  a 
mortal  distemper  in  his  bosom,  and  after  languishing  a 
few  months,  expired  in  the  greatest  agonies. 

Some  time  after,  Augustus  returned  home  to  his  pa- 
rents, possessed  of  an  equal  stock  of  learning  and  pru- 
dence, his  departure  from  the  university  being  regret- 
ted both  by  his  teachers  and  companions.  It  may  easily 
be  supposed,  that  bis  family  received  him  with  tran- 
sports of  joy.  You  know  not,  my  little  readers,  how 
pleasing  are  those  tender  parental  feelings,  which  arise 
from  the  prospect  of  seeing  their  children  beloved  and 
respected  !   His  parents  thought  themselves  the  happiest 

)f  people,  and  tears  of  joy  filled  their  eyes  when  they 

>eheld  him. 

Augustus  had  not  been  long  at  home,  before  a  consi- 
derable employment  in  his  profession  was  conferred  on 
[Jhim,  with  the  unanimous  approbation  of  all  who  were 
•acquainted  with  his  character.     This  enabled  him  to 

h 


m  LOOKING-GLASS. 

gratify  His  generous  desire  of  promoting-  the  felicity  of 
his  friends,  and  a  sense  of  their  happiness  added  to  Ins 
own.  He  was  the  comfort  of  his  parents  in  the  evening 
of  their  lives,  and  with  interest  repaid  their  attention  and 
care  of  Him  in  his  childhood.  An  amiable  wife,  equal- 
ly endued  with  sense,  virtue,  and  beauty,  who  bore 
him  children  like  himself,  completed  his  happiness. 

In  the  characters  of  Antony  and  Augustus,  we  sec 
trie  fatal  consequences  of  giving  way  to  folly  and  vice, 
and  what  a  happy  effect  the  contrary  conduct  has.  An- 
tony fell  a  victim  to  the  misguided  indulgence  of  his 
parents,  while  Augustus  lived  to  be  happy  by  the  pru- 
dent management  he  received  in  his  infancy » 

QUEEN  of  all  virtues  !   for  wliate'er  we  call 
Sublime  and  great,  'tis  thou  obtain'st.  it  all. 
No  task  too  arduous  for  thy  strong  essay, 
And  art,  and  nature  own  thy  potent  sway. 
The  sage,  whilst  learning  studious  he  pursues> 
}W  thee  the  stubborn  sciences  subdues  : 
Thro'  truth's  wide  fields  expatiates  unconfin'd, 
And  stores  for  ever  his  capacious  mind. 


« 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


12, 


THE  DESTRUCTIVE  CONSEQUENCES  OF  DISSIPA- 
TION AND  LUXURY. 

UN  u  fine  evening,  in  the  midst  of  summer,  Mr. 
Drake  and  his  son  Albert  took  a  walk  in  some  of  the 
most  agreeable  environs  of  the  city.  The  sky  was 
clear,  the  air  cool,  and  the  purling  streams,  and  gen- 
tle  zephyrs  rustling'  in  the  trees,  lulled  the  mind  into 
an  agreeable  oioom.  Albert,  enchanted  with  the  natu- 
ral  beauties  that  surrounded  him,  could  not  help  ex- 
claiming, 'What  a  lovely  evening!'  He  pressed  his  fa- 
ther's hand,  and  looking  up  to  him,  said,  '  You  know 
not  papa,  what  thoughts  rise  in  my  heart !'  He  was 
silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  looking  towards  heaven, 
his  eyes  moistened  with  tears,  c  I  thank  God  (said  he) 
for  the  happy  moments  he  now  permits  me  to  enjoy! 
Had  I  my  wish,  every  one  should  taste  the  beauties  of 
this  evening  as  I  do  Where  I  king  of  a  large  country, 
I  would  make  my  subjects  perfectly  happy.' 

Mr.     Drake  embraced  his  son,  and  told  him,  that 
the  benevolent  wish  he  had  iust  uttered  came  from  a 


124  LOOKING-GLASS. 

heart  as  generous  as  it  was  humane.  *  But  would  not 
your  thoughts  change  with  your  fortune?  Are  you  cer- 
tain, that  in  an  exalted  station  you  should  preserve  the 
sentiments,  which  now  animate  you  in  that  middling 
state,  in  which  it  has  pleased  heaven  to  place  you?7 

Albert  was  a  little  surprized  that  his  father  should 
ask  such  a  question  ;  for  he  had  no  idea  that  riches 
could  bring  with  them  cruelty  and  wickedness. 

Mr.  Drake  told  him,  that  indeed  was  not  always  the 
case.  *  The  world  has  produced  fortunate  persons, 
(said  he)  who  have  remembered  their  past  distresses, 
and  have  always  retained  the  most  charitable  ideas  for 
the  unfortunate  ;  but  we  too  often  see,  what  is  a  dis- 
grace to  the  human  heart,  that  a  change  of  fortune  al- 
ters the  most  tender  and  sympathetic  affections.  While 
we  ourselves  labor  under  misfortunes,  we  look  upon  it 
as  a  duty  incumbent  on  every  man  to  assist  us.  Should 
the  hand  of  God  relieve  us,  we  then  think,  that  all 
his  intentions  in  the  preservation  of  the  world  are  an- 
swered, and  too  often  cease  to  remember  those  unfortu- 
nate wretches,  who  remain  in  the  gulf  from  which  we 
have  been  rescued.  You  may  see  an  instance  of  this 
in  the  man,  who  frequently  comes  to  beg  charity  of 
me,  whom  I  relieve  with  reluctance,  and  cannot  but 
censure  myself  for  so  doing.'  Albert  told  his  father 
that  he  had  frequently  observed  how  coolly  he  put  mo- 
ney into  his  hands,  without  speaking  to  him  in  that 
tender  language,  which  he  generally  used  to  other 
poor  people.  He  therefore  begged  his  father  would 
tell  him  what  could  be  his  reason  for  it. 

i  I  will  tell  you,  my  dear,  (said  Mr.  Drake)  what 
lias  been  his  conduct,  and  then  leave  you  to  judge 
how  far  I  do  right.     Mr.  Mason  was  a  linen-draper  in 


LOOKING-GLASS.  Kj 

Cheap-side  ;  and,  though  the  profits  of  his  business 
were  but  moderate,  yet  a  poor  person  never  asked  his 
charity  in  vain.  This  he  viewed  as  his  most  pleasing 
extravagance,  and  he  considered  himself  happy  in  the 
enjoyment  of  it,  though  he  could  not  pursue  this  in- 
dulgence to  the  extent  of  his  wishes.  Business  one 
day  calling  him  on  'Change,  he  heard  a  number  of  ca- 
pital  merchants  talking  together  of  vast  cargoes,  and 
the  immense  profits  to  be  expected  from  them,  *  Ah ! 
(said  he  to  himself )  how  happy  these  people  are !  Were 
I  as  rich,  heaven  knows,  I  should  not  make  money 
my  idol,  for  the  poor  should  plentifully  partake  of  my 
abundance.' 

'  This  man  went  home  with  a  bosom  full  of  ambiti- 
ous thoughts  ;  but  his  circumstances  were  too  narrow 
to  embrace  his  vast  projects,  as  it  required  no  small 
share  of  prudence  in  the  management  of  his  affairs,  to 
make  every  thing  meet  at  the  end  of  the  year.  c  Ah ! 
(crk  's  he)  I  shall  never  get  forward,  nor  rise  above  the 
middling  condition,  in  which  I  at  present  linger.' 

In  the  midst  of  these  gloomy  thoughts,  a  paper,  in- 
viting adventurers  to  purchase  shares  in  the  lottery, 
was  put  into  his  hand.     He  seemed  as  if   inspired  by 
fortune  and  caught  the  idea  immediately.     Without 
considering  the  inconvenience  to  which  his  covetous- 
ness  might  reduce  him,  he  hastened  to  the  lottery  office, 
and  there  laid  out  four  guineas,     From   this  moment, 
he  waited  with  impatience  for  the  drawing,  nor  could 
he   find  repose  even    at  night  on   his  pillow.      He 
sometimes  repented  of    having    sa    foolishly  hazard- 
ed   what  he  could   not  well  bear  the  loss    of,  and   at 
other  times  he  fancied  he  saw  riches  pouring  in  upon 
him  from  all  quarters.     At  last  the  drawing  bcga.% 

h  3 


LOOKING-GLASS. 

and,  in  the  midst  of  his  hopes  and  fears,  fortune  fa- 
vored him  with  a  prize  of  five  thousand  pounds. 

'Having  received  his  money,  he  thought  of  nothing 
else  for  several  days ;  but  when  his  imagination  had  cooled 
a  little,  iie  began  to  think  what  use  he  should  make  of 
it.  He  therefore  increased  his  stock,  extended  his  bu- 
siness, and  by  care  and  assiduity  in  trade  soon  doubled 
his  capital.  In  less  than  ten  years,  he  became  one  of 
the  most  considerable  men  in  the  city,  and  hitherto  he 
had  punctually  kept  his  promise,  in  being  the  friend 
and  patron  of  the  poor  ;  for  the  sight  of  an  unfortunate 
person  always  put  him  in  mind  of  his  former  condition, 
and  pleaded  powerfully  in  behalf  of  the  distressed. 

'  As  he  now  frequented  gay  company,  he  by  degrees 
began  to  contract  a  habit  of  luxury  and  dissipation ; 
he  purchased  a  splendid  country-house  with  elegant 
gardens,  and  his  life  became  a  scene  of  uninterrupted 
pleasures  and  amusements.  All  this  extravagance, 
however,  soon  convinced  him,  that  he  was  considerably 
reducing  his  fortune  ;  and  his  trade,  which  he  had 
given  up,  to  be  the  more  at  leisure  for  the  enjoyment 
of  his  pleasures,  no  longer  enabled  him  to  repair  it. 
Besides,  having  been  so  long  accustomed  to  put  no 
restraint  on  his  vanity  and  pride,  he  could  not  submit 
to  the  meanness  of  lessening  his  ex nences.  I  shall  al- 
ways have  enough  for  myself,  (thought  he)  and  let 
others  take  care  of  themselves.' 

'As  his  fortune  decreased,  so  did  his  feelings  for  the 
distressed,  and  his  heart  grew  callous  to  the  cries  of  mi- 
sery, as  with  indifference  we  hear  the  roaring  tempest 
when  sheltered  from  its  fury.  Friends  whom  he  had 
till  then  supported,  came  as  usual  to  implore  his  boun- 
ty ;  bathe  received  them  roughly,  aud  forbid  them 


LOOKING-GLASS.  127 

his  house.  Am  I,  (said  he)  to  squander  my  fortune  upon 
you  ?   Do  as  I  have  done,  and  get  one   for  yourselves.' 

' His  poor  unhappy  mother,  from  whom  he  had  ta- 
ken half  the  pension  he  used  to  allow  her,  came  to 
beg  a  corner  in  any  part  of  his  house,  where  she  might 
finish  her  few  remaining  days  ;  but  he  was  so  cruel  as 
to  refuse  her  request,  and  with  the  utmost  indifference 
saw  her  perish  for  want.  The  measure  of  his  crimes, 
however,  was  now  nearly  filled.  His  wealth  was  all 
soon  exhausted  in  debauchery,  and  other  excesses,  and 
he  had  neither  the  inclination  nor  ability  to  return  to 
trade.  Misery  soon  overtook  him,  and  brought  him 
to  that  state  in  which  you  now  see  him.  He  begs  his 
bread  from  door  to  door,  an  object  of  contempt  and 
detestation  to  all  honest  people,  and  a  just  example  of 
the  indignation  of  the  Almighty.' 

Albert  told  his  father,  that  if  fortune  made  men  so 
wicked  and  miserable,  he  wished  to  remain  as  he  was, 
above  pity,   and  secure  from  contempt. 

'Think  often,  my  dear  child,  (said  his  father  to  him) 
of  this  story,  and  learn  from  this  example,  that  no  true 
happiness  can  be  enjoyed,  unless  we  feel  for  the  mis- 
fortunes of  others.  It  is  the  rich  man's  duty  to  relieve 
the  distresses  of  the  poor,  and  in  this  more  solid  plea- 
sure is  found,  than  can  be  expected  from  the  enervating 
excesses  of  luxury  and  pomp.' 

The  sun  was  now  sinking  beneath  the  horizon,  and 
his  parting  beams  rejected  a  lively  glow  upon  the 
clouds,  which  seemed  to  form  a  purple  curtain  round 
his  bed.  The  air,  freshened  by  the  approach  of  even- 
ing, breathed  an  agreeable  calm  ;  and  the  feathered 
inhabitants  of  the  grove  sung  their  farewell  song.  The 
wind  rustling  among  the  trees,  added  a  gentle  murmur 


128 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


to  the  concert,  and  every  thing  seemed  to  inspire  joy 
and  happiness,  while  Albert  and  his  father  returned  to 

their  house  with  thoughtful  and  pensive  steps. 

FOR  him,  who,  lost  to  ev'ry  hope  of  life, 
This  long  with  fortune  held  unequal  strife, 
Known  to  no  human  love,  no  human  care, 
The  friendless,  homeless  object  of  despair; 
tor  the  poor  vagrant  feet,  v  tide  he  complains, 
Nor  from  sad  freedom  send  to  sadder  chains. 
Alike,  if  folly  or  misfortune  brought 
Thos  ;  last  of  woes  his  evil  days  have  wrought ; 
Relieve  with  social  mercy,  and,  with  me, 
1-olly's  misfortune  in  the  first  degree. 

Perhaps  on  some  inhospitable  shore 
The  houseless  wretch  a  widow 'd  parent  bore  ; 
Who,  tin  in  ao  more  by  golden  prospects  led, 
Of  the  poor  Indian  hreg'u  a  h-nty  hod. 
Cold  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Mindin's plain,- 
Perhaps  that  parent  moaru'd  her  soldier  slain  ; 
Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew, 
The  big  drops  mingling  with  the  inilk  he  drew, 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery  baptiz'd  m  tears  f 


jpp 


I'* 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


\29 


WILLIAM  AND  AMELIA. 
IN  a  pleasant  village,  at  some  distance  from  the  me- 
tropolis, lived  Lord  and  Lad}'  Russel,  who  had  brought 
up  an  orphan  named  William,  from  his  infancy,  and 
had  a  stranger  to  the  family  seen  in  what  a  tender  man- 
ner he  was  treated,  he.  would  have  supposed  him  to  be 
their  son.  This  amiable  couple  had  only  one  child  liv- 
ing, a  daughter,  named  Amelia,  who  was  nearly  of  the 
same  age  with  William,  and  the  lady  was  pleased  to  see 
that  the  two  children  had  something  beyond  a  common 
attachment  for  each  other. 

William  and  Amelia  were  one  fine  summer  morning 
sauntering  in  the  orchard  with  their  little  friend  Char- 
lotte, whose  parents  lived  in  the  neighborhood.  Of 
these  two  little  misses,  Amelia  was  the  youngest,  and 
not  quite  eight  years  of  age.  They  were  walking  arm 
in  arm,  and  humming  over  a  pretty  song,  then  fashion- 
able in  the  village  collection  of  ballads.  At  the  same 
time  William  was  walking  before  them,  at  some  dis- 
tance, amusing  himself  with  a  shepherd's  pipe, 


130  LOOKIKG-GMSS. 

While  Amelia  and  Charlotte  were  thus  rambling 
about,  they  cast  their  eyes  on  sonic  beautiful  apples 
that  hung  on  a  fine  tree,  tVoiri  which  ail  the  fruit  had 
been  supposed  to  be  gathered  ;  but  the  branches  had 
hidden  some  from  view,  and  in  course  had  escaped  the 
notice  of  the  gatherers.  The  beautiful  vermilion,  with 
which  these  ;;pj)!e  were  tinged,  and  which  the  leaves 
could  not  entirely  hide,  seemingly  invited  the  hand  to 
come  and  take  them.  William  instantly  climbed  the 
tree  they  were  admiring,  and  threw  down  as  many  ap- 
ples as  he  could  reach,  while  the  ladies  below  held  their 
aprons  to  catch  them  as  they  i^U. 

Chance  so  directed  it,  that  two  or  three,  which  were 
considered  as  the  finest,  fell  into  the  apron  of  Charlotte, 
who  was  much  pleased  with  this  accidental  distribu- 
tion, as  she  might  with  reason  have  been,  had  a  pre-- 
meditated  preference  fc>eeu  the  cause  of  it,  for  William 
was  in  reality  the  politest  and  prettiest  little  fellow  in 
the  village. 

Charlotte,  with  joy  and  triumph  in  her  eyes,  thus 
addressed  herself  to  Amelia  :  '  Only  see  how  tine  and 
large  my  apples  arc;,  v.  bile  yours  are  nothing  to  com- 
pare to  them  !'  Amelia  was  very  much  displeased  with 
these  words,  she  hung  down  her  head,  and  putting  on 
a  serious  countenance,  remained  silent  during  the  re- 
mainder of  the  walk.  William,  by  an  hundred  assi- 
duities, endeavored  to  recover  Amelia's  cheerfulness, 
again  to  spread  a  smile  on  her  clouded  countenance, 
and  make  her  renew  her  usual  pleasing  prattle. 

As  soon  as  they  arrived  near  home,  Charlotte  took 
her  leave.  Little  William  then  addressed  his  sister, 
for  by  that  tender  name  he  always  called  her,  and  ask- 
ed her  why  she  seemed  so  angry  with  him.    i  Certain- 


L00KIXG-GLAS3.  131 

lv,  (said  he)  you  cannot  be  angry  at  Charlotte  having 
her  share  of  the  apples.  You  very  well  know  that  I 
always  loved  you  best,  and  therefore  endeavored  to 
throw  into  your  apron  those  apples,  which,  hy  chance, 
fell  into  Charlotte's.  You  must  be  sensible,  that  I 
could  not  afterwards  take  them  from  her.  Besides,  I 
thought  yon  of  too  generous  a  disposition  to  take  no- 
tice of  such  trifles.  Be  assured,  the  first  opportunity 
that  shall  offer,  I  will  give  you  a  convincing  proof 
that  I  had  no  design  to  vex  you,  whatever  you  may 
at  present  think  of  my  intentions.' 

i  Very  pretty,  indeed,  Mr.  William  !  (replied  Ame- 
lia, with  a  look  of  uneasiness  and  disdain.)  Pray  who 
told  3^ou  that  I  was  vexed  ?  Suppose  Miss  Charlotte's 
apples  had  been  ten  times  finer  that  mine,  Avould  that 
be  any  consideration  to  me  ?  You  very  well  know,  Sir, 
that  I  am  no  glutton  ;  neither  should  I  have  taken  any 
notice  of  the  preference  you  shewed  her,  had  it  not 
been  for  that  saucy  little  creature's  looks.  I  never 
wish  to  see  her  more  ;  and  as  for  you,  fall  down  on 
your  knees  this  instant,  or  I  never  will  forgive  you 
while  I  live.' 

Little  William  could  not  think  of  submitting  to  such 
an  indignity,  as  that  would  be  confessing  a  fault  of 
which  he  was  not  guilty,  and  therefore  now  stood 
more  upright  than  before.  t  I  am  no  story-teller,  Miss 
Amelia,  (said  he)  and  therefore  it  is  very  wrong  in 
you  not  to  believe  what  1  so  positively  affirm,  for  I 
certainly  had  no  design  to  vex  you.' 

'  Very  wrong  in  me,  Sir  !  (replied  Amelia.)  That 
is  pretty  indeed  !  But  you  need  not  thus  affront  me, 
because  Miss  Charlotte  is  your  favorite  !'    So  saying, 


122  LOOKING-GLAx. 

and  bestowing  a  contemptuous  curtsey  on  him,  she 

left  him  with  an  affected  air  of  scorn  and  contempt. 

Dinner  being  now  ready,  they  sat  down  at  table, 
but  pouted  at  each  other  all  the  time  it  lasted.  Ame- 
lia would  not  once  drink,  in  order  to  avoid  saying, 
1  Your  good  health,  William.1  And  William,  on 
his  part,  was  so  vexed  at  her  treatment  of  him,  that 
he  was  determined  not  to  give  up  the  point.  Amelia, 
however,  could  not  help  sometimes  stealing  a  glance 
at  William,  and  from  a  corner  of  her  eye  watch  all 
h\§  motions.  As  it  happened,  one  of  these  sly  glances 
met  the  eye  of  William,  who  was  equally  attentive  to 
watch  all  the  motions  of  Amelia,  without  wishing  to 
be  observed.  Their  eyes  thus  meeting,  she  instantly 
turned  hers  away  to  another  object ;  and  as  William 
attributed  this  to  contempt,  which  in  reality  it  was  not, 
he  affected  much  indifference,  and  continued  eating 
with  the  most  apparent  composure. 

As  soon  as  the  cloth  was  removed,  and  the  wine  and 
fruit  put  on  the  table,  poor  Amelia,  being  sadly  out 
of  temper  at  the  indifference  she  experienced  from 
William,  made  a  disrespectful  answer  to  a  question 
put  to  her  by  her  mamma,  and,  for  a  second  offence 
of  the  same  nature,  was  ordered  to  retire  from  table. 
She  obeyed,  and  bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears,  instant- 
ly withdrew,  without  caring  whither  she  went.  How- 
ever, it  so  happened,  that  the  garden  door  was  open  ; 
she  therefore  flew  down  the  walk,  and  went  into  the 
arbor,  in  order  there  in  secret  to  give  a  vent  to  her 
Q''^\  Here  she  cried  most  lamentably  ;  and  soon  re- 
pented of  her  qu are! ling  with  William,  who  constant- 
ly, whenever  she  happened  to  get  into  disgrace  with 
her  mamma,  would  not  only  weep  with  her,  but  eu* 


LOOKING-GLASS.  133 

dearer  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation,  which  he  nev- 
er failed  to  accomplish. 

Though  William  continued  at  table,  he  could  not 
help  feeling  for  the  disgrace  of  Amelia.  He  had  fix- 
ed his  eye  on  two  peaches,  and  endeavored  to  contrive 
means  of  getting  them  into  his  pocket  in  order  to  con- 
vey them  to  Amelia,  whom  he  knew  he  should  find 
some  where  in  the  garden,  and  he  could  easily  make  an 
excuse  to  ^o  thither  ;  vet  he  was  fearful  of  having; bis 
intentions  discovered.  He  pushed  back  his  chair, 
then  brought  it  forward  several  times,  and  was  conti- 
nually looking  down,  as  if  for  something  on  the  car- 
pet. *  Pretty  little  Caesar  !  sweet  Pompey  V  cried  he, 
speaking  to  two  dogs  then  in  the  room.  At  this  time, 
he  held  a  peach  in  his  hand,  which  he  meant  to  slip  in- 
to his  pocket,  as  soon  as  he  could  discover  the  eyes  of 
my  lord  and  lady  attracted  by  any  other  object.  c  On- 
ly see,  papa  and  mamma,  (continued  he)  how  prettily 
they  are  playing  !' 

His  lordship  replied,  that  they  would  not  eat  one 
another,  he  would  answer  for  it  ;  and  having  just  look- 
ed  at  them,  put  himself  into  his  former  position.  Thus 
poor  William,  who  thought  he  was  sure  of  then  pocket- 
ihg  the  peach,  was  sadly  disappointed,  and  obliged  to 
replace  it  on  the  table. 

These  motions,  however,  were  observed  by  lady 
Jfiissel,  who  conjectured  what  were  his  intentions. 
Plie  therefore,  for  some  time,  enjoyed  the  poor  fel- 
low's embarrassments,  and  made  his  lordship  acquaint- 
ed with  it  by  looks  and  dumb  motions. 

William,  who  had  no  idea  that  his  scheme  was  sus- 
pected, being  fearful  of  trying  the  same  stratagem 
twice,  instantly  thought  of  another  expedient.      He 

M 


i:+  LOOKING-GLASS. 

took  a  peach,  and  placed  it  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands 
both  put  together,  after  which  he  conducted  it  to  his 
mouth,  and  made  believe  as  though  he  was  really  eat- 
ing it.  Then,  while  with  his  left  hand  he  found  means 
to  clap  his  peach  into  a  cavity  he  had  previously  hol- 
lowed in  the  napkin  on  his  knees,  he  put  his  right  hand 
out  to  reach  the  other,  which  he  disposed  of  in  the 
same  manner. 

In  a  few  minutes,  my  lord  and  lady  forgot  to  watch 
the  motions  of  William,  and  entered  into  conversation 
on  various  subjects.  He  therefore  thought  this  a  pro- 
per opportunity  to  get  away,  rose  up  from  table, 
with  both  peaches  in  the  napkin,  and  began  to  imitate 
the  mewing  of  a  cat,  which  a  young  shepherd's  boy  had 
lately  taught  him.  His  view  in  this  was  to  engage  the 
attention  of  Caesaf  and  Pompey,  in  which  he  succeed- 
ed, and  they  both  got  up  and  jumped  about  the  room. 

Lady  Russel  was  a  little  angry  with  him  for  making 
such  a  noise,  and  told  him,  if  he  wanted  to  make  such 
a  mewing  as  that,  the  garden  was  the  most  proper 
place.  William  pretended  to  be  very  much  confused 
at  this  reproof,  though  the  consequence  of  it  was  the 
very  thing  he  wanted.  He  then  instantly  ran  up  to 
Caesar.  '  See,  mamma,  (said  William)  lie  wants  to  bite 
Pompey  !'  and  as  he  turned,  he  dexterously  slipped  the 
napkin  into  his  pocket,  and  pretended  to  run  after  Cae- 
sar to  punish  him.  The  dog  ran  towards  the  door 
Amelia  had  left  open  when  she  went  into  the  garden, 
and  away  went  William  in  pursuit  »f  her. 

Lady  Russel  called  William  back,  and  asked  him 
where  he  was  going.  '  My  dear  mamma,  (said  he)  if 
you  please,  I  will  take  a  turn  in  the  garden,  and  I 
hope  you  will  not  refuse'  me  that  favor.'      As  Lady 


LOOKING-GLASS.  13S 

Russel  did  not  immediately  answer  him,  he  lowered  his 
voice,  and  spoke  in  a  more  suppliant  manner.  At  last 
having  obtained  her  permission,  away  he  ran  with  so 
much  haste,  that  his  foot  slipped,  and  down  he  fell; 
but,  luckily,  neither  he  nor  the  peaches  were  hurt. 

After  searching  round  the  garden  for  his  sister,  h<$ 
at  last  found  her  in  the  arbor,  sitting  in  an  attitude  of 
sorrow,  she  was  exceedingly  unhappy  to  think  she  had 
grieved  the  three  best  friends  she  had,  her  worthy  pa-« 
rents,  and  her  dear  William.  '  My  sweetest  Amelia, 
(said  the  little  fellow,  falling  on  his  knees  at  the  same 
time)  let  us  be  friends.  I  would  freely  ask  forgiveness 
for  my  fault,  had  I  really  intended  to  displease  you. 
If  you  will  ask  my  pardon,  I  will  ask  yours  also.  My 
pretty  Amelia,  let  us  be  friends.  Here  are  two  nice 
peaches,  which  I  could  not  think  of  eating  while  you 
were  not  present  to  partake  of  them.' 

'  Ah,  my  dearest  Billy  !  (said  Amelia,  squeezing  his 
hand  while  she  spoke,  and  weeping  on  his  shoulder) 
what  a  sweet  good-tempered  little  fellow  you  are  ? 
Certainly,  (continued  she,  sobbing  while  she  spoke) 
those  that  are  friends  to  us  in  our  misfortunes  are  truly 
valuable.  It  was  very  wrong  in  me  to  be  so  vexed, 
as  I  was  this  morning,  about  the  loss  of  a  few  apples, 
It  was  the  insulting  lock  that  Miss  Charlotte  gave  me 
that  was  the  cause  of  it  ;  but  I  will  think  of  her  no 
more.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?  (added  she,  wiping  off 
the  tears  she  had  let  fall  on  William's  hand)  I  confess 
that  I  sometimes  love  to  plague  you ;  but  keep  your 
peaches,  for  I  cannot  think  of  eating  them.' 

'As  to  plaguing  me,  sister,  (answered  William) 
you  may  do  that  as  often  as  you  like  ;  but,  I  assure 
you,  nobody  shall  do  so  but  yourself;  as  to  the  peach- 


136  LOOKING-GLASS. 

es,  I  most  certainly  will  not  cat  them.  I  have  already 
told  you  so,  and  my  word  is  like  the  law  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians,  which  altereth  not. 

'For  the  same  reason,  (said  Amelia)  I  shall  not  eat 
Ihem,'  and  immediately  threw  them  both  over  the  gar- 
den wall  ;  for,  besides  her  having  said  she  would  not 
eat  them,  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  receiving 
a  bribe  to  reconcile  a  quarrel.  Amelia's  next  consider- 
ation was,  how  to  make  it  up  with  her  mamma,  and 
she  said  she  should  be  happy  indeed,  if  she  would  but 
permit  her  to  appear  before  her,  and  ask  her  pardon. 
The  generous  little  William  no  sooner  heard  these 
■words,  than,  he  promised  to  settle  that  husiness,  and 
away  he  instantly  ran  ;  but  before  he  had  taken  many 
steps,  he  stopped  short,  and  turning  round,  said  'I 
will  tell  mamma,  that  it  was  I  who  made  you  anger 
her,  by  having  vexed  you  in  the  morning.'' 

Little  William  succeeded  beyond  his  expectations, 
and  all  parties  were  soon  reconciled  to  each   Other.     A 
friendship  so  affectionate  and  generous,  is  highly  wor- 
thy of  the  imitation  of  all  my  juvenile  readers. 
O  happy  they  !  tin-  happiest  of  their  kind  ! 
Whom  gentle  stars  unite,  and  in  one  fate 
Their  hearts,  their  fortunes,  and  their  beings  blend. 
'Tis  not  the  coarser  tie  of  human  laws, 
Unnatural  oft,  and  foreign  to  the  mind, 
That  binds  their  peace,  but  harmony  itself, 
Attuning  all  their  passions  into  love  ; 
Where  friendship  full  exerts  her  softest  power, 
Perfect  esteem  enliveu'd  by  desire 
Ineffable,  and  sympathy  of  soul  ; 
Thought  meeting  thought,  and  will  preventing  will, 
With  boundless  confidence  :  for  nought  but  loye 
Can  answer  love,  and  render  bliss  secure. 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


137 


THE  RIVAL  DOGS. 

A.  GENTLEMAN,  whose  name  was  Howard,  had 
brought  up  two  pretty  dogs  from  puppies.  The  one 
he  called  Castor,,  and  the  other  Pollux,  hoping  they 
would  live  in  such  friendship  together,  as  did  the 
two  illustrious  heroes,  after  whom  they  were  named. 
Though  they  both  came  From  the  same  mother,  and  at 
the  same  time  ;  had  been  both  fed  together,  and  equal- 
ly treated  ;  yet  it  was  soon  seen,  that  there  was  a  great 
difference  in  their  tempers  and  dispositions. 

Castor  was  of  a  meek  and  tractable  nature  ;  but 
Pollux  was  fierce  and  quarrelsome,  When  any  per- 
son  took  notice  of  the  generous  Castor,  he  would  wagf 
his  tail,  and  jump  about  for  joy,  nor  was  he  ever  jea- 
lous on  seeing  more  notice  taken  of  his  brother  than  oF 
himself.  The  surly  Pollux,  on  the  contrary,  when- 
ever Mr.  Howard  had  him  on  his  lap,  would  growl  and 
grumble  at  Castor,  if  he  attempted  to  come  near  him,, 
or  if  anv  one  took  notice  of  him. 

When  any  of  Mr.  Howard's  friends  happened  to 
M  2 


ui  LOOKING-TSLAS 

come  on  a  visit  to  his  house,  and  bring  their  dogs  along 
with  them,  the  good-natured  Castor  would  immediate- 
ly mix  among  them,  and  in  his  way  endeavor  to  amuse, 
them.  As  he  was  by  nature  extremely  pliant  and  en- 
gaging, they  were  all  peaee  and  harmony  whenever  it 
fell  to  his  lot  to  entertain  them.  They  would  jump 
and  play  about  the  house,  as  boys  do  in  school  when 
they  are  left  to  themselves. 

The  surly  Pollux  acted  a  very  different  part.  lie 
would  sneak  into  a  corner,  and  bark  all  day  at  the 
strangers.  If  any  of  them  happened  to  pass  too  near 
him,  he  would  be  sure  to  snarl  and  grin,  and  would 
often  start  up,  and  bite  their  ears  or  tails.  If  his  mus- 
ter happened  to  take  any  notice  of  either  of  the 
strange  dogs,  on  account  of  their  good-nature  or  hand- 
someness, Pollux  would  howl  as  loud  as  if  thieves 
were  actually  breaking  into  the  house. 

This  odious  disposition  of  Pollux  did  not  escape  the 
notice  of  Mr  Howard,  who  gradually  began  to  neg- 
lect him  ;  while  Castor,  on  the  contrary,  was  every 
day  increasing  in  his  master's  favor. 

As  Mr.  Howard  was  one  day  sitting  at  table,  it  sud- 
denly entered  his  mind  to  make  a  more  particular  tri- 
al of  the  temper  of  these  two  dogs  than  he  hadhitherto 
done.  Both  happened  to  be  attending  at  table,  but 
Pollux  was  nearest  his  master  ;  for  the  good-natured 
Castor,  in  order  to  avoid  strife  and  contention,  always 
let  him  choose  his  place. 

Mr.  Howard  threw  a  nice  piece  of  meat  to  Pollux, 
which  he  devoured  with  much  greediness.  Caster 
shewed  no  signs  of  uneasiness  at  this,  but  patiently 
waited  till  his  master  should  think  it  was  his  turn.  Soon 
afterwards,    Mi\  Howard  threw  Castoj-  a  bone  with 


LOOKINC-GLASS.  r3* 

hardly  an}'  meat  on  it ;  but  he  took  it  without  shewing 
the  least  mirk  of  discontent.  The  surly  Pollux,  how- 
ever, no  sooner  saw  his  brother  engaged  on  his  meat- 
less bone,  though  he  had  feasted  on  his  own  delicious 
morsel,  than  he  fell  upon  him,  and  took  it  from  him. 
The  good-natured  Castor  made  no  opposition,  but 
gave  up  the  bone  without  a  murmur. 

My  readers  must  not  from  hence  imagine,  that  Cas- 
tor was  a  coward,  or  was  in  the  least  afraid  of  the 
strength  of  his  brother  ;  for  he  had  lately  given  suffi- 
cient proof  of  his  courage  and  resolution,  in  a  battle 
he  had  been  drawn  into  by  Pollux,  whose  intolerable 
moroseness  had  brought  on  him  the  vengeance  of  a 
neighboring  dog.  Pollux,  after  engaging  his  antago- 
nist only  a  few  minutes,  though  he  bad  provoked  the 
dog  to  try  his  strength,  ran  away  like  a  cowaM;  but 
Castor,  in  order  to   cover  the  ret      .  s  brother, 

and  without  any  one  to  take  his  part,  fought  him  like 
a  hero,  and  at  last  forced  him  to  run  away  likewise. 

Mr.  Howard  was  well  acquainted  with  this  circum- 
stance, and  as  he  had  before  established  his  credit,  in 
point  of  courage,  so  was  his  master  now  fully  convin- 
ced of  his  good  temper,  and  the  surly  and  cowardly 
disposition  of  his  brother.  <  My  good  fellow,  (said 
Mr.  Howard  to  Castor)  it  is  but  just,  that  you  should 
at  least  fare  as  well  as  your  brother,  who  does  not  de- 
serve so  much  as  you.'  So  saying,  he  cut  off  a  large 
piece  of  nice  meat,  and  gave  it  to  Castor. 

Pollux,  seeing  so  nice  a  morsel  given  to  his  brother, 
accompanied  with  such  cutting  words  from  his  master! 
began  to  growl  and  snarl.  'Since  you  have  shewn 
so  much  complaisance  and  generosity  to  your  brother, 
(continued  Mr.  Howard,  still  peaking  to  Castor)  who 


140  LOOKING-GLASS. 

in  return  treats  you  with  ill-manners,  jealousy,  and 
envy,  }'ou  shall  in  future  be  my  dog,  and  be  at  liber- 
ty to  range  about  the  house  at  your  pleasure  ;  but  your 
brother  shall  be  confined  in  the  yard.  Here,  (cried  he) 
bring  a  chain  for  Pollux,  and  order  the  carpenter  to 
make  him  a  little  house  !'  The  order  was  instantly 
obeyed,  and  Pollux  was  led  to  his  kennel  ^* while  Ins 
brother  rambled  about  at  liberty. 

Had  Pollux  received  so  singular  a  mark  of  favor,  he 
would  undoubtedly  have  supported  it  with  insolence  ; 
but  Castor  was  of  a  different  disposition,  and  appear- 
ed very  unhappy  at  his  brother's  disgrace.  When- 
ever any  nice  bit  was  given  to  Castor,  he  woidd  run 
away  with  it  to  Pollux,  wag  his  tail  for  joy,  and  in- 
vite him  to  partake  of  it.  In  short,  he  visited  him 
every  night  in  his  house,  and  did  every  thing  he  could 
to  amuse  him  under  his  sufferings. 

Notwithstanding  all  these  marks  of  tenderness,  Pol- 
lux always  received  his  brother  in  the  most  surly  man- 
ner, howling  as  though  he  were  come  to  devour  him, 
and  treating  him  with  every  mark  of  disrespect.  At 
length  rage  and  disappointment  inflamed  his  blood, 
he  pined  away  by  degrees,  and  at  last  died  a  misera- 
ble spectacle. 

The  moral  of  this  story  is  so  obvious,  that,  there 
hardly  appears  a  necessity  to  tell  my  young  readers, 
that  such  a  disposition  as  Pollux  must  render  its  pos- 
sessor an  object  of  contempt  and  abhorrence,  while 
that  of  Castor  will  ever  be  beloved  and  respected. 

NOR  think,  in  Nature's  state  they  blindly  trod  ; 
The  state  of  Nature  was  the  reign  of  God  : 
Self-love  and  social  at  her  birth  began, 
Union  the  bond  of  all  things,  and  of  Man, 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


HI 


Pride  then  was  not ;  nor  arts,  that  pride  to  aid  ; 
Man  walk'd  with  beast,  joint  tenant  of  the  shade; 
The  same  his  table,  and  the  same  his  bed  ; 
No  murder  cloath'd  him,  and  no  murder  fed*. 
In  the  same  temple,  the  resounding  wood, 
AH  vocal  beings  hymn'd  their  equal  God  : 
HeavVs  attribute  was  universal  care, 
And  man's  prerogative,  to  rule,  but  spare- 
Ah  !  how  unlike  the  man  of  times  to  come  ! 
Of  half  that  live  the  butcher  and  the  tomb  ; 
Who,  foe  to  Nature,  hears  the  gen'ral  groan, 
Murders  their  species,  and  betrays  his  own. 
Eut  just  disease  to  luxury  succeeds, 
And  ev'ry  death  its  own  avenger  breeds ; 
The  fury-passions  from  that  blood  began, 
And  turn'd  on  Man,  a  fiercer  savage,  Man. 


1*2 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


CLEOPATRA ;  OR,   THE   REFORMED  LITTLE 
TYRANT. 

xjl  PERT  little  hussey,  whose  name  was  Cleopatra, 
■was  continually  teasing  and  commanding  her  poor  bro- 
ther. <  So  yon  will  not  do  what  I  bid  you,  Mr.  Obsti- 
nacy !  (she  would  often  say  to  him)  Come,  come,  Sir, 
obey,  or  it  shall  be  the  worse  for  you.' 

If  Cleopatra's  word  might  be  taken  for  it,  her  bro- 
ther did  every  thing -wrong  ;  but  on  the  contrary,  what- 
ever she  thought  of  doing,  was  the  master-piece  of 
reason  and  sound  sense.  It  he  proposed  any  kind  of 
diversion,  she  was  sure  to  consider  it  as  dull  and  insi- 
pid ;  but  it  often  happened,  that  she  would  herself  the 
next  day  recommend  the  same  thing,  and  having  for- 
gotten what  she  had  said  of  it  before,  consider  it  as  the 
most  lively  and  entertaining. 

Her  brother  wa^  obliged  to  submit  to  her  unaccount- 
able whims  and  fancies,  or  else  endure  the  most  disa- 
greeable lectures  a  little  female  tongue  could  utter.  If 
ever  he  presumed  to  be  so  hardy  as  to  reason  with  her 


LOOKING-GLASS.  M3 

on  her  strange  conduct,  instant  destruction  to  his  play- 
things was  the  inevitable  consequence  of  it. 

Her  parents  with  regret  saw  this  strange  and  tyran- 
nical disposition  of  then*  daughter,  and  in  vain  did 
every  thing  they  could  think  of  to  break  her  of  it. 
Her  mother,  in  particular,  continually  enforced  on  her 
mind,  that  such  children  never  procured  the  esteem  of 
others  ;  and  that  a  girl,  who  set  up  her  own  opinion 
against  that  of  every  one  eke,  would  soon  become  in- 
tolerable and  insupportable  to  all  her  acquaintance. 
This  prudent  advice,  however  made  no  impression  on 
her  stubborn  heart;  and  her  brother  wearied  out  by  her 
caprice  and  tyranny,  began  to  have  very  little  affection 
for  her.  It  one  day  happened,  that  a  gentleman  of  a 
free  and  open  temper  dined  at  their  house.  He  could 
not  help  observing  with,  what  a  haughty  air  she  treated 
her  poor  brother,  and,  indeed,  every  other  person  in 
the  room.  At  first,  the  rules  of  politeness  kept  him 
from  saying  any  thing  ;  but  at  last,  tired  out  with  her 
impertinence,  he  began'  addressing  his  discourse  to  her 
mamma,  in  the  following  manner  : 

' 1  was  lately  in  France,  and,  as  I  was  fond  of  being 
present  at  the  soldiers  exercise,  I  used  to  go,  as  often 
as  I  could,  to  see  their  manoeuvres  on  the  parade,  near- 
ly in  the  same  manner  as  they  do  here,  near  the  Park, 
Among  the  soldiers  there  were  many  I  observed  with 
whiskers,  which  gave  them  a  very  fierce  and  soldier-like 
look.  Now,  had  I  a  child  like  your  Cleopatra,  I  would 
instantly  give  her  a  soldier's  uniform,  and  put  on  her  a 
pair  of  whiskers,  when  she  might,  with  rather  more 
propriety  than  at  present,  act  the  part  of  a  comman- 
der.' 

Cleopatra  heard  this,  and  stood  covered  with  confu- 


U4  LOOKlNG-GIiASS. 

sion  !  she  could  not  help  blushing,  and  was  unable  to 
conceal  her  tears.  However,  this  reproach  perfectly 
reformed  her,  and  she  became  sensible  how  unbecom- 
ing was  a  tyrannizing  temper.  It  lias  been  observed, 
that  to  be  sensible  of  our  errors  is  half  the  work  of  re- 
formation. So  it  happened  with  Cleopatra,  who,  with 
the  assistance  of  her  mother's  prudent  counsels,  became 
an  amiable  girl.  Her  reformation  was  a  credit  to  her  ; 
and  it  is  much  to  he  wished  that  all  young  ladies,  who 
take  no  pains  to  conquer  their  passions,  would  at  last 
imitate  Cleopatra,  and  wish  to  avoid  being  told,  that 
a  soldier's  dress  and  a  pair  of  whiskers  would  better  be* 
come  them,  than  nice  cambric  frocks  and  silk  slips. 
Had  Cleopatra  attended  to  the  advice  of  her  parents, 
and  not  have  imagined  that  greatness  consists  in  imper- 
tinence, she  would  have  been  happy  much  sooner  than 
she  was. 


THERE  was  a  little  stubborn  dame, 
Whom  no  authority  could  tame  : 
Restive,  by  long  indulgence,  grown, 
No  will  she  minded  but  her  own  ; 
At  trifles  oft  she'd  seold  and  fret, 
Then  in  a  corner  take  a  seat, 
And,  sourly  moping  all  the  day, 
Disdain  alike  to  work  or  play. 

Papa  all  softer  arts  has  try'd, 
And  sharper  remedies  apply  'd  ; 
But  both  were  vain,  for  every  course 
He  took  still  made  her  worse  and  worse. 
Mamma  obseiVd  the  rising  lass 
By  stealth  retiring  to  the  glass  ; 
On  this  a  deep  design  she  laid 
To  tame  the  humor  of  the  maid  ; 


LOOKING-GLASS.  U$ 

Contriving,  like  a  prudent  mother, 

To  make  one  folly  cure  another. 

Upon  the  wall,  against  the  seat 

Which  Cleo  us'd  for  her  retreat, 

Whene'er  by  accident  offended, 

A  looking-glass  was  straight  suspended, 

That  it  might  shew  her  how  deform'd 

She  lookM,  and  frightful,  when  she  stormM  5 

And  warn  her,  as  she  prizM  her  beauty, 

To  bend  her  humor  to  her  duty. 

All  this  the  looking-glass  atchievM, 

Its  threats  were  minded  and  belie vM. 

The  maid,  who  spurnM  at  all  advice* 

Grew  tame  and  gentle  in  a  trice  ; 

So  when  all  other  means  had  fail'd^, 

The  silent  monitor  prevaiPd. 


*f 


14ti 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


r^^^^^t^^H^r^l 


THE  PASSIONATE  BOY. 

Y  OUNG  Frederick  had  naturally  a  noble  soul,  ele- 
vated thoughts,  and  generous  notions.  His  turn  of 
mind  was  lively,  his  imagination  strong  and  quick,  and 
his  temper  chearful  and  pleasing*  Indeed,  the  ele- 
gance of  his  person,  and  his  behavior  and  accomplish- 
ments, gained  him  the  respect  of  every  one  ;  but  not- 
withstanding all  these  amiable  qualities,  he  had  one  un- 
happy defect,  which  was  that  of  giving  way  too  readi- 
ly to  the  most  violent  emotions  of  passion. 

It  would  frequently  happen,  that  while  he  was 
amusing  himself  in  the  circle  of  his  playmates,  the 
most  trifling  contradiction  would  ruflle  his  temper, 
and  fill  him  with  the  highest  degree  of  rage  and  fury, 
little  short  of  a  state  of  madness. 

As  he  happened  to  be  one  day  walking  about  his 
chamber,  and  meditating  on  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions for  a  treat  his  father  had  permitted  him  to  give 
his  sister,  his  dear  friend  and  favorite,  Marcus,  came 
t©  him  to  advise  with  him  on  that  business.    Frederick, 


LOOKING-GLASS.  147 

being  lost  in  thought,  saw  not  his  friend,  who  there- 
fore, having  spoken  to  him  in  vain,  drew  nearer  to 
him,  and  began  to  pull  him  by  the  sleeve.  Frederick, 
angry  and  out  of  patience  with  these  interruptions, 
suddenly  turned  rouud,  and  gave  Marcus  such  a  push, 
that  he  sent  him  reeling  across  the  room,  and  he  at 
last  fell  against  the  wainscot. 

Marcus  lay  motionless  on  the  floor,  without  the  least 
appearance  of  life  ;  for  in  his  fall,  he  had  struck  his 
head  against  something  which  had  given  him  a  deep 
and  terrible  wound,  from  which  issued  a  great  quan- 
tity of  blood.  How  shall  we  describe  the  situation  of 
poor  Frederick,  who  loved  his  friend  tenderly,  and  for 
whom  he  would,  on  occasion,  have  sacrificed  his  life  ! 

Frederick  fell  down  beside  him,  crying  out  most  la- 
mentably, '  He  is  dead  !  he  is  dead !'  I  have  killed 
my  dear  friend  Marcus  !'  So  great  were  his  fright  and 
consternation,  that  he  had  no  idea  of  calling  for  assis- 
tance, but  lay  by  his  side  uttering  the  most  dismal 
groans.  Happily,  however,  his  father  heafd  him, 
and,  instantly  running  in,  took  up  Marcus  in  his  arms. 
He  called  for  some  sugar  to  stop  the  bleeding  of  the 
wound,  and  having  applied  some  salts  fo  his  nose, 
and  some  water  to  his  temples,  they  brought  him  a  little 
to  himself. 

Frederick  was  transported  with  joy  when  he  per- 
ceived symptons  of  life  in  his  friend  ;  but  the  fear  of 
relapse  kept  him  in  the  greatest  anxiety.  They  imme- 
diately sent  for  a  surgeon,  who  as  soon  as  he  arrived, 
searched  the  wound.  He  found  it  was  not  in  the  tem- 
ple, but  so  very  close  to  it,  that  the  tenth  part  of  an 
inch  nearer  would  probably  have  made  the  wound  dan- 
gerous indeed,  if  not  mortal. 


HI  LOOKING-GLASS. 

Marcus  being  carried  home,  soon  became  delirious, 
and  Frederick  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  him. 
He  sat  down  by  the  side  of  his  poor  friend,  wholely 
absorbed  in  silence.  Marcus,  while  he  remained  in 
that  delirious  state,  frequently  pronounced  the  name 
of  Frederick.  '  My  dear  Frederick,  (he  would  some- 
times say)  what  could  I  have  done  to  deserve  being 
treated  in  this  manner  ?  Yet,  I  am  sure,  you  cannot 
be  less  unhappy  than  myself,  when  you  reflect  you 
wounded  me  without  a  cause.  However,  I  would  not 
wish  your  generous  nature  should  be  grieved.  Let  us 
forgive  each  other,  I  for  vexing  you,  and  you  for 
wounding  me. 

In  this  manner  did  Marcus  talk,  without  being  sen- 
sible that  Frederick  was  near  him,  though  he  held  him 
by  the  hand  at  the  same  time.  Every  word  thus  pro- 
nounced, in  which  there  could  be  neither  flattery  nor 
deceit,  went  to  the  heart  of  the  afflicted  Frederick, 
and  rendered  his  grief  almost  insupportable. 

In  ten  days  time,  however,  it  pleased  God  to  abate 
the  fever,  and  he  was  enabled  to  get  up,  to  the  great 
joy  of  his  parents;  but  how  can  we  express  the  feel- 
ings of  Frederick  on  this  happy  occasion  !  fhat  task 
must  be  left  for  those  who  inay  have  unfortunately 
been  in  a  similar  situation  :  his  joy  now  was  undoubt- 
edly as  great  as  his  sorrows  had  been. 

Marcus,  at  last,  got  perfectly  well,  and  Frederick 
in  consequence  recovered  his  former  cheerfulness  and 
good-humor.  He  now  stood  in  need  of  no  other  les- 
son, than  the  sorrowful  event  that  hail  lately  taken 
place,  to  break  himself  of  that  violence  of  temper,  to 
which  he  had  been  so  long  a  slave.  In  a  little  time, 
no  appearanca  of  the  wound  remained*,  excepting  a 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


149 


small  scar  near  his  temple,  which  Frederick  could  ne- 
ver look  at  without  some  emotion,  even  after  they  were 
both  grown  up  to  manhood.  Indeed,  it  ever  after- 
wards ^as  considered  as  a  seal  of  that  friendship, 
which  they  never  lost  sight  of. 

AND  therefore  wert  thou  bred  to  virtuous  knowledge,  j 
And  wisdom  early  planted  in  thy  soul, 
That  thou  mightst  know  to  rule  thy  fiery  Passions  ; 
To  bind  their  rage,  and  stay  their  headlong  course  ; 
To  bear  with  accidents  and  ev'ry  change 
Of  various  life  ;  to  struggle  with  adversity  ; 
To  wait  the  leisure  of  the  righteous  God, 
Till  he,  in  his  own  good  appointed  hour, 
Shall  bid  thy  better  days  come  forth  at  once  ; 
A  long  and  shining  train  ;  till  thou,  well  pleas'd, 
Shalt  bow,  and  bless.thy  fate,  and  say  that  God  is  just, 


N    2 


*5t 


LOOiUNG-GLAii* 


t^^W^H*^^^ 


CAROLINE;   OR  A  LESSON  TO  CURE  VANITY. 

x\.  PLAIN  white  frock  had  hitherto  been  the  only 
dress  of  Caroline.  Silver  buckles  in  her  red  morocco 
shoes  ;  and  her  ebon  hair,  which  had  never  felt  the 
torturing  iron,  flowed  upon  her  shoulders  in  graceful 
ringlets,  now  and  then  disturbed  by  the  gentle  winds. 
Being  one  day  in  company  with  some  little  girls, 
who,  tho'  no  older  than  herself,  were  dressed  in  all  the 
empty  parade  of  fashion  ;  the  glare  and  glitter  of  those 
fine  clothes  raised  in  her  heart  a  desire  she  had  never 
before  felt. 

As  soon  as  she  got  home,  '  My  dear  mamma,  (said 
she)  I  have  this  afternoon  seen  Miss  Flippant  and  her 
two  sisters,  whom  you  very  well  know.  The  eldest 
is  not  older  than  myself,  and  yet  they  were  all  dressed 
in  the  most  elegant  manner.  Their  parents  must  cer- 
tainly have  great  pleasure  in  seeing  them  so  finely 
dressed  ;  and,  as  they  are  not  richer  than  you,  do, 
my  dear  mamma,  let  me  have  a  fine  silk  slip,  embroi- 
dered shoes  like  theirs,  and  let  my  hair  be  dressed  by 


LOOKING-GLASS.  151 

Mr.  Frizzle,  who  is  said  to  be  a  very  capital  man  in 
his  profession  !' 

Her  mother  replied,  that  she  should  have  no  objec- 
tion to  gratify  her  wishes,  provided  it  would  add  to 
her  happiness  ;  but  she  was  rather  fearful  it  might  have 
a  contrary  effect.  As  Miss  Caroline  could  not  give  in- 
to this  mode  of  thinking,  she  requested  her  mamma  to 
explain  her  reasons  for  what  she  bad  said. 

1  Because,  (said  her  mother)  you  will  be  in  continu- 
al fear  of  spotting  your  silk  slip,  and  even  rumpling  it 
whenever  you  wear  it.  A  dress  like  that  of  M.ss  Flip- 
pant will  require  the  utmost  care  and  attention  to  pre- 
serve it  from  accidents  ;  for  a  single  spot  will  spoil  its 
beauty,  and  you  very  well  know  there  is  no  washin  g 
of  silks.  However  extensive  my  fortune  may  be^  I 
assure  you  it  is  not  sufficient  to  purchase  you  silk 
gowns  so  often  as  you  would  wish  to  have  them.' 

Miss  Caroline  considered  these  arguments  as  very 
trifling,  and  promised  to  give  her  mamma  no  uneasi- 
ness as  to  her  carelessness  in  wearing  her  fine  clothes. 
Tho'  her  mamma  consented  to  let  her  be  dressed  in 
the  manner  she  requested,  yet  she  desired  her  to  re- 
member the  hints  she  had  given  her  of  the  vexations 
to  which  her  vanity  would  expose  her. 

Miss  Caroline,  on  whom  this  good  advice  had  no 
effect,  lost  not  a  moment  in  destroying  all  the  pleasure 
and  enjoyment  of  her  infancy.  Her  hair,  which  be- 
fore hung  down  in  careless  ringlets,  was  now  tv/isted 
up  in  paper,  and  squeezed  between  a  pair  of  burning- 
tongs  ;  that  fine  jet,  which  had  hitherto  so  happily  set 
off  the  whiteness  of  her  forehead,  was  lost  under  a 
clod  of  powder  and  pomatum. 

Li  a  few  days  the  mantua- maker  arrived  with  a  fine 


152  LOOKING-GLASS 

slip  of  pea -green  taflfety,  with  fine  pink  trimmings, 
and  a  pair  of  shoos,  elegantly  worked,  to  answer  the 
slip.  The  sight  of  them  gave  infinite  pleasure  to  Ca- 
roline ;  but  it  was  easily  to  be  perceived,  when  she 
had  them  on,  that  her  limbs  were  under  great  restraint, 
and  her  motions  had  lost  their  accustomed  ease  and 
freedom.  That  innocence  and  candor,  which  used  to 
adorn  her  lovely  countenance,  began  to  be  lost  amidst 
the  profusion  of  flowers,  silks,   gauzes,  and  ribbands. 

The  novelty,  however,  of  her  appearance,  quite 
enchanted  her.  Her  eyes,  with  uncommon  eagerness 
wandered  over  every  part  of  her  dress,  and  were  sel- 
dom removed,  unless  to  take  a  general  survey  of  the 
whole  in  a  pier-glass.  She  prevailed  on  her  mamma, 
to  let  her  send  cards  of  invitation  to  all  her  acquaintan- 
ces, in  order  to  enjoy  the  inexpressible  pleasure  of  be- 
ing gazed  at.  As  soon  as  they  were  met,  she  would 
walk  backwards  and  forwards  before  them,  like  a  pea- 
cock, and  seem  to  consider  herself  as  the  empress  of 
the  world,  and  they  as  her  vassals. 

All  this  triumph  and  consequence,  however,  met 
with  many  mortifying  circumstances.  The  children, 
who  lived  near  her,  were  one  ddy  permitted  to  ram- 
ble about  the  fields,  when  Caroline  accompanied  them, 
and  led  the  way.  What  first  attracted  their  attention 
was  a  beautiful  meadow,  enamelled  with  a  variety  of 
charming  flowers  ;  and  butterflies,  whose  wings  were 
of  various  colors,  hovered  over  its  surface.  The  little 
ladies  amused  themselves  with  hunting  these  butterflies, 
which  they  dexterously  caught  without  hurting  them  ; 
and,  as  soon  as  they  had  examined  their  beauties,  let 
them  fly  again.     Of  the  flowers  that  sprung  beneath 


their  feet,  they  made  nosegays,  formed  in  the  prettiest 
taste. 

Tho'  pride  would  not  at  first  permit  Miss  Caroline 
to  partake  of  these  mean  amusements,  yet  she  at  last 
wanted  to  share  in  the  diversion  ;  but  they  told  her, 
that  the  ground  might  be  damp,  which  would  infalli- 
bly stain  her  shoes,  and  hurt  her  silk  slip.  They  had 
discovered  her  intention  in  thus  bringing  them  together,, 
which  was  only  to  shew  her  fine  clothes,  and  they 
were  therefore  resolved  to  mortify  her  vanity. 

Miss  Caroline  was  of  course  under  the-  necessity  of 
being  solitary  and  inactive,  while  her  companions  spor- 
ted on  the  grass  without  fear  of  incommoding  them- 
selves. The  pleasure  she  had  lately  taken  in  viewing 
her  fine  slip  and  shoes  was,  at  this  moment,  but  a  poor 
compensation  for  the  mirth  and  merriment  she  thereby 
lost. 

On  one  side  of  tbe*meadow  grew  a  fine  grove  of 
trees,  which  resounded  With  t!  e  various  notes  of  innu- 
merable birds,  and  which  seemed  to  invite  every  one 
that  passed  that  way  to  retire  thither,  and  partake  of 
the  indulgences  of  the  shade.  The  little  maidens  eu- 
teved  this  grove,  jumping  and  sporting,  without  fear- 
ing any  injury  to  their  clothes.  Miss  Caroline  would 
have  followed  them,  but  they  advised  her  not,  telling 
her  that  the  bushes  would  certainly  tear  her  fine  trim- 
mings. She  plainly  saw  that  her  friends,  who  were 
joyously  sporting  among  the  trees,  were  making  them- 
selves merry  at  her  expence,  and  therefore  grew  peev- 
ish and  ill-humored. 

The  youngest  of  her  visitors  however,  had  some 
sort  of  compassion  on  her.  She  had  just  discovered  a 
corner,    where   a  quantity    of  fine  wild  strawberries 


T3*  JJJUJUMr-ULASS. 

grew,  when  she  called  to  Miss  Caroline,  and  invited 
her  to  eat  part  of  them.  This  she  readily  attempted  ; 
but  no  sooner  had  she  entered  the  grove,  than  she  was 
obliged  to  call  out  for  help.  Hereupon  the  children 
all  gathered  to  the  spot,  and  found  poor  Caroline  fas- 
tened by  the  gauze  of  her  hat  to  a  branch  of  white- 
thorn, from  which  she  could  not  disengage  herself. 
They  immediately  took  out  the  pins  that  fastened  her 
hiit ;  but  to  add  to  her  misfortunes,  as  her  hair,  which 
had  been  frizzled  with  so  much  labor,  was  also  entang- 
led with  a  branch  of  white-thorn,  it  cost  her  almost  a 
whole  lock,  before  she  could  be  set  at  liberty.  Thus, 
in  an  instant,  was  all  the  boasted  superstructure  of  her 
head-dress  put  into  a  state  of  confusion. 

After  what  had  passed,  it  cannot  be  difficult  to  sup- 
pose in  what  manner  her  playmates  viewed  this  acci- 
dent. Instead  of  consolation,  of  which  Caroline  stood 
in  much  need,  they  could  not  refrain  from  laughing  at 
the  odd  figure  she  made,  and  did  actually  torment  her 
with  an  hundred  witty  jokes.  After  having  put  her  a 
little  into  order,  they  quitted  her  in  search  of  new 
amusements,  and  were  soon  seen  at  the  top  of  a  neigh- 
boring hill.  Miss  Caroline  found  it  very  difficult  to 
reach  this  hill ;  for  her  line  shoes,  that  were  made  very 
tight,  in  order  to  set  oiT  her  feet  the  better,  greatly  re- 
tarded her  speed.  Nor  was  this  the  only  inconvenience; 
for  her  stays  were  drawn  so  close,  that  she  could  not 
properly  breathe.  She  would  very  willingly  have  gone 
home  to  change  her  dress,  in  order  to  be  more  at  ease ; 
but  she  well  knew  that  her  friends  would  not  give  up 
their  amusements  to  please  her  caprice. 

Her  playmates  having  reached  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  enjoyed  the  beautiful  prospect  that  surrounded 


LOOKING-GLASS.  155 

them  on  all  sides.  On  one  hand  were  seen  verdant 
meadows  ;  on  the  other  the  riehes  of  the  harvest,  with 
meandering  streams  that  intersected  the  fields,  and 
country  seats  and  cottages  scattered  here  and  there. 
So  grand  a  prospect  could  not  fail  of  delighting  them 
and  they  danced  about  with  joy  ;  while  poor  Caroline 
found  herself  obliged  to  remain  below,  overwhelmed 
with  sorrow,  not  being  able  to  get  up  the  hill. 

In  such  a  situation,  she  had  leisure  enough  to  make 
the  most  sorrowful  reflections.  i  To  what  purpose, 
(said  she  to  herself )  am  I  dressed  in  these  fine  clothes? 
Of  what  a  deal  of  pleasure  do  they  debar  me,  and  do 
not  all  my  present  sufferings  arise  merely  from  the  pos- 
session of  them?'  She  was  giving  up  her  mind  to  these 
distressing  thoughts,  when  she  suddenly  saw  her  friends 
come  running  down  the  hill,  and  all  crying  out  toge- 
ther, as  they  passed  her,  'Run,  run,  Caroline!  there 
is  a  terrible  storm  behind  the  hill,  and  it  is  coming  to- 
wards us !  If  you  do  not  make  haste,  your  fine  silk  slip 
will  be  nicely  soused  !' 

The  fear  of  having  her  slip  spoiled,  recalled  her 
strength  ;  she  forgot  her  weariness,  pinched  feet, 
and  tight-laced  waist,  and  made  all  the  haste  she  could 
to  get  under  cover.  In  spite  of  all  her  efforts,  how- 
ever, she  could  not  run  so  fast  as  her  companions,  who 
were  not  incommoded  by  their  dresses.  Every  moment 
produced  some  obstacle  to  her  speed  :  At  one  time, 
by  her  hoop  and  flounces  in  the  narrow  paths  she  had 
to  pass  through  ;  at  another,  by  her  train,  of  which 
the  furzes  frequently  took  hold  ;  and  at  others,  by 
Mons.  Pomatum  and  Powder's  fine  scafYold-work  about 
her  head,  rtn  which  the  wind  beat  down  the  branches 


t56  LOOKING-GLASS. 

of  such  trees  as  she  was  obliged,  in  her  progress  home, 
to  pass  under. 

At  last,  down  came  the  storm  with  great  fury,  and 
hail  and  rain  mixed,  fell  in  torrents.  All  her  compa- 
nions were  safe  at  home  before  it  began,  and  none 
were  exposed  to  its  rage  but  poor  Caroline,  who  in- 
deed, got  home  at  last,  but  in  a  most  disastrous  condi- 
tion. She  had  left  one  of  her  fine  shoes  behind  her  in 
a  large  muddy  hole,  which,  in  her  precipitate  flight, 
she  had  hurried  over  without  observing  ;  and  to  fill  up 
the  measure  of  her  misfortunes,  just  as  she  had  got 
over  the  meadow,  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  made, free 
with  her  hat,  and  blew  it  into  a  pond  of  stagnated  and 
filthy  water. 

So  completely  soaked  was  every  tiling  she  had  on, 
and  the  heat  and  rain  had  so  glued  her  linen  to  her, 
that  it  was  with  some  difficulty  they  got  her  undressed  ; 
as  to  her  silk  slip,  it  indeed  afforded  a  miserable  spec- 
tacle of  fallen  pride  and  vanity. 

Her  mother  seeing  her  in  tears,  jocosely  said  to  her^ 
1  My  dear,  shall  I  have  another  slip  made  up  for  yon 
against  to-morrow  V — *Oh  no,  mamma,  (answered  Ca- 
roline, kissing  her )  I  am  perfectly  convinced  from  ex- 
perience, that  fine  clothes  cannot  add  to  the  happiness 
of  the  wearer.  Let  me  again  have  my  nice  white  frock, 
and  no  more  powder  and  pomatum  till  I  am  at  least  ten 
years  older;  for  I  am  ashamed  of  my  folly  and  vanity.' 

Caroline  soon  appeared  in  her  former  dress,  and 
with  it  she  recovered  her  usual  ease  and  freedom,  look- 
ing more  modest  and  pleasing  than  she  ever  did  in  her 
gaudy  finery.  Her  mamma  did  not  regret  the  loss  she 
had  sustained  in  the  wreck  of  the  silk  slip,  fine  shoes 


LOOKING-GLASS.  157 

and  hat,  since  it  produced  the  means  of  bringing  her 
daughter  back  to  reason  and  prudence. 

WHAT  is  the  sex's  earliest,  latest  care, 
The  heart's  supreme  ambition  ?  To  be  fair  : 
For  this  the  toilet  every  thought  employs, 
Hence  all  the  toils  of  dress,  and  all  the  joys  ; 
For  this,  hands,  lips,  and  eyes  are  put  to  school, 
And  each  instructed  feature  has  its  rule  ; 
And  yet  how  few  have  learnt,  when  this  is  giv'n, 
Not  to  disgrace  the  partial  boon  of  heav'n  ? 
Do  you,  my  fair,  endeavor  to  possess 
An  elegance  of  mind  as  well  as  dress ; 
Be  that  your  ornament,  and  know  to  please 
By  graceful  Nature's  unaffected  ease. 


I 


LOOUN- 


sm^i 


ARTHUR  AND  ADRTAN  ;  OR,  TWO  HEADS  BUTTER 
THAN  ONE. 

xVDRIAN  had  frequently  heard  his  father  say,  that 
children  had  hut  little  knowledge  with  respect  to  what 
was  the  most  proper  for  them  ;  and  that  the  greatest 
proof  they  could  give  of  their  wisdom,  consisted  in  fol- 
lowing the  advice  of  people,  who  had  more  age  and 
experience.  'This  was  a  kind  of  doctrine  Adrian  did 
not  understand,  or  at  least  would  not,  and  therefore  it 


is  no  wonder  he  forgot  it. 


This  wise  and  good  father  had  allotted  him  and  his 
brother  Arthur  a  convenient  piece  of  ground,  in  order 
that  each  might  be  possessed  of  a  little  garden,  and  dis- 
'play  his  knowledge  and  industry  in  the  cultivation  of 
it.  They  had  also  leave  to  sow  whatever  seed  they 
should  think  proper,  and  to  transplant  any  tree  they 
liked  out  of  their  father's  garden  into  their  own. 

Arthur  remembered  those  words  of  his  father,  which 
his  brother  Adrian  had  forgotten,  and  therefore  went 
to  consult  their  gardener  Rufus.     '  Pray  tell  me,  (said 


i 


LOOKING-GfcASS.  155 

he)  what  is  now  in  season  to  sow  in  my  garden,  and 
in  what  manner  I  am  to  set  about  my  business  ?'  The 
gardener  hereupon  gave  him  several  roots  and  seeds, 
such  as  were  properest  for  the  season.  Arthur  instant- 
ly ran,  and  put  them  in  the  ground,  and  Rufus  very 
kindly,  not  only  assisted  him  in  the  work,  but  made 
him  acquainted  with  many  things  necessary  to  be 
known. 

Adrian,  on  the  other  hand *  shrugged  up  his  shoul- 
ders at  his  brother's  industry,  thinking  he  was  taking 
much  more  pains  than  was  necessary.  Rufus,  not  ob- 
serving this  contemptuous  treatment,  offered  him  like- 
wise his  assistance  and  instruction  ;  but  he  refused  it  in 
a  manner  that  sufficiently  betrayed  his  vanity  and  i«no- 
ranee.  He  then  went  into  his  father's  garden,  and  took 
from  thence  a  quantity  of  flowers,  which  he  transplant- 
ed into  his  own.  The  gardener  took  no  notice  of  him, 
but  left  him  to  do  as  he  liked. 

When  Adrian  visited  his  garden  the  next  moaning, 
all  the  flowers  he  had  planted  hung  down  thejr  Uads, 
like  so  many  mourners  at  a  funeral,  and,  as  he  plainly 
saw,  were  in  a  dying  state.  He  replaced  them  with 
others  from  his  Other's  garden  ;  but,  on  visiting  them 
the  next  morning,  he  found  them  perishing  like  the  for- 
mer. 

This  was  a  matter  of  great  vexation  to  Adrian,  who 
consequently  became  soon  disgusted  wink  this  kind  of 
business.  He  had  no  idea  of  taking  so  much  pains  for 
the  possession  of  a  few  flowers,  and  therefore  gave  it 
up  as  an  unprofitable  game.  Hence  his  piece  of  ground 
soon  became  a  wilderness  of  weeds  and  thistles. 

As  he  was  looking  into  his  brother's  garden,  about 
the  beginning  of  summer,  he  saw  something  of  a  red 


160 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


color  hanging  near  the  ground,  which,  on  examination, 
he  found  to  be  strawberries,  of  a  delicious  flavor.  <  Ah  ! 
(said  he)  I  should  have  planted  strawberries  in  mv  gar- 
den.' 

Some  time  afterwards,  walking  again  in  his  brother's 
garden,  he  saw  little  berries  of  a  milk-white  color, 
which  hung  down  in  clusters  from  the  branches  of  a 
bush.  Upon  examination,  he  found  they  were  eurrants, 
which  even  the  sight  of  was  a  feast.  <  Ah  !  (said  he) 
I  should  have  planted  currants  in  my  garden.' 

The  gardener  then  observed  to  him,  that  is  was  his 
own  fault  his  garden  was  not  as  productive  as  his  bro- 
ther's. <  Never  for  the  future  (said  Puifus)  despise  the 
instruction  and  assistance  of  any  one,  since,  you  will 
find  by  experience,  that  t~xo  heads  are  better  than  one. 

WHAT  self-sufficiency  and  false  content 
Benumb  the  senses  of  the  indolent  ! 
Dead  to  all  purposes  of  good,  or  ill, 
Alive  alone  in  an  tmactvee  a  ill. 
II  s  only  vice  in  nogood  action  lies, 
And  his  sole  virtue  is  his  Uxmt  of  rice. 
Business  he  deems  too  bard,  trifles  too  easy, 
Aud  doing  nothing  finds  himself  too  busy. 
Wealth  isprocurAl  with  toil,  and  kept  with  fear, 
Knowledge  by  labor  purchased  costs  too  dear  ; 
Honor  a  bubble,  subject  to  a  breath, 
And  all  •  i       ements  vain  since  nnll'd  by  death  ; 
Thus  all  the  wise  esteem,  he  can  despise, 
And  caring  n  >t,  'tis  he  alone  is  wise  ; 
\i',  all  his  wish  possessing,  finds  no  rest, 
And  only  lives  to  know,  he  never  can  be  blest. 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


lol 


MADAM  D'ALLONE;  AND  I1EH  FOUR  PUPILS, 

JVlADAM  D'Allone  was  the  governess  of  four  f-Otiiig 
ladies,  Emilia,  Harriot,  Lucy,  and  Sophia,  whom  slie 
loved  with  the  tenderness  of  a  mother.  Her  principal 
wish  was,  that  her  pupils  might  be  virtuous  and  hap- 
py, and  that  they  might  enjoy  all  the  comforts  of  lifd 
with  tranquillity.  They  each  experienced  an  equal 
share  of  her  indulgence,  and  each  received  the  same 
treatment,  either  as  to  pardon  for  errors,  or  rewards. 
or   punishments. 

Her  endeavors  wcr'c  crowned  with  the  happiest  suc- 
cess, and  her  four  little  girls  became  the  sweetest  chil- 
dren upon  earth.  They  told  each  other  of  their  faults, 
and  as  readily  forgave  offences  ;  they  shared  in  each 
other's  joys,  nor  were  they  ever  happy  when  separa- 
ted. 

An  unforeseen  event,  however,  disturbed  this  happy 
tranquillity,  just  at  the  very  moment  they  began  to 
taste  its  charms,  which  served  to  convince  them,  how 


m  LOOKING-GLASS. 

necessary  it  was  to  be  guided  by  their  prudent  govei 
neefc, 

Madam  D'AIlone  was  obliged  to  leave  her  pupils  for 
a  little  time,  a  family  affair  having  made  it  necessary 
for  her  to  visit  France.  She  left  them  with  much  re- 
luctance, even  sacrificed  her  interest,  in  some  measure, 
to  the  desire  of  speedily  settling  her  affairs,  and,  in  the 
course  of  a  month,  returned  in  safety  to  her  little  flock, 
who  received'her  with  the  warmest  expressions  of  joy  ; 
but  the  alteration  she  perceived  in  her  children  very 
much  surprised  and  alarmed  her. 

She  saw  it  frequently  happen,  that  if  one  asked  the 
slightest  favor  of  another,  it  was  ill-naturedly  refused, 
and  from  thence-  arose  tumults,  and  quarrels.  That 
gaiety  and  cheerfulness,  which  had  used  to  accompany 
all  their  sports  and  pastimes,  were  now  changed  to  a 
gloomy  perverseness  ;  and,  instead  of  those  tender  ex- 
pressions of  love  and  friendship,  which  had  constantly 
dwelt  in  all  their  conversatddnSj  nothing  wras  now  heard 
but  perpetual  jarrings  and  wranglings.  If  one  propo- 
sed a  walk  in  the  garden,  another  would  give  some  rea- 
son why  she  wished  to  remain  in  her  chamber  ;  and,  in 
short,  their  only  study  seemed  to  be  to  thwart  each  other. 

It  happened  cue  day,  that  not  contented  with  shew- 
ing each  other  how  much  they  delighted  in  perverse- 
ness, they  mutually  distressed  themselves  with  recipro- 
cal reproaches. 

Madame  D'Allone  beheld  this  scene  with  the  greatest 
uneasiness,  and  could  not  help  shedding  tears  on  the 
occasion.  She  did  not  then  think  it  prudent  to  say  any 
thing  to  them,  but  retired  to  her  chamber,  in  order 
there  to  think  of  the  prooerest  means  of  restoring  peace 
and  hanr.eny  among  her  unhappy  pupils. 


LOOKING-GLASS.  163 

While  she  was  turning  these  afflicting  thoughts  in 
her  mind,  all  the  four  young  ladies  entered  her  apart- 
ment with  a  peevish  and  uneasjr  look,  each  complain- 
ing of  the  ill-temper  of  the  rest.  There  was  not  one 
but  what  charged  the  other  three  with  being  the  cause 
of  it,  and  altogether  begged  their  governess  would,  if 
possible,  restore  to  them  that  happiness  they  once  pos- 
sessed. 

Their  governess  put  on  a  very  serious  countenance, 
and  said,  '  I  have  observed,  my  pupils,  that  yon  en- 
deavor to  thwart  each  other,  and  thereby  destroy  your 
pleasures.  In  order,  therefore,  that  no  such  thing  may 
happen  again,  let  each  take  up  her  corner  in  this  room, 
if  she  chuse  it,  and  divert  herself  in  what  manner  she 
pleases,  provided  she  does  not  interfere  with  either  of 
her  sisters..  You  may  immediately  have  recourse  to  this 
mode  of  recreation,  as  you  have  leave  to  play  till  night ; 
but  remember  that  neither  of  you  stir  from  the  corner 
in  which  I  shall  place  you.' 

The  little  maidens,  who  were  noway  displeased  with 
this  proposal,  hastened  to  their  different  quarters,  and 
began  to  amuse  themselves  each  in  her  own  way.  So- 
phia commenced  a  conversation  with  her  doll,  or  rather 
told  her  many  pretty  little  stories  ;  but  her  doll  had  not 
the  gift  of  speech,  and  consequently  was  no  compa- 
nion. She  could  not  expect  any  entertainment  from  her 
sisters,  as  they  were  playing,  each  asunder,  in  their 
respective  corners. 

Lucy  took  her  battledore  and  shuttlecock,  but  there 
were  none  to  admire  her  dexterity  ;  besides,  she  was 
not  allowed  to  strike  it  across  the  room,  as  that  would 
have  been  an  invasion  en  one  of  her  lister's  territories. 


1*4  LOOKING-GLASS, 

She  could  not  expect,  that  either  of  them  would  quit 
their  amusements  to  oblige  her. 

Harriot  was  Very  fond  of  her  old  game  of  hunt  the 
slipper ;  but  what  was  she  to  do  with  the  slipper  by 
herself;  she  could  only  shove  it  from  hand  to  hand.  Jt 
was  in  vain  to  hope  for  such  service  from  her  sisteis,  as 
each  was  amusing  herself  in  her  assigned  corner. 

Emilia,  who  was  a  very  skilful  pretty  house-wife, 
was  thinking  how  she  might  give  her  friends  an  enter- 
tainment, and  of  course  sent  out  for  many  things  to 
market  ;  but  there  was  at  present  nobody  near,  with 
whom  she  might  consult  on  the  occasion,  for  her  sisters 
were  amusing  themselves  each  in  her  corner. 

Every  attempt  they  made  to  find  some  new  amuse- 
ment failed,  and  all  supposed  that  a  compromise  would 
be  most  agreeable  ;  but,  as  matters  were  carried  so  far, 
who  was  first  to  propose  it  ?  This  each  would  have  con- 
sidered as  a  humiliating  circumstance  ;  they  therefore 
kept  their  distance,  and  disdainfully  continued  in  their 
solitude.  The  day  at  last  closing,  they  returned  to  Ma- 
dam D'Allone,  and  begged  her  to  think  of  some  other 
amusement  for  them,  than  the  ineffectual  one  they  had 
tried. 

*  I  am  sorry,  my  children,  (said  their  governess)  to 
see  you  all  so  discontented.  I  know  but  of  one  way  to 
make  you  happy,  with  which  you  yourselves  were  for- 
merly acquainted,  but  which,  it  seems,  you  have  for- 
gotten. Yet,  if  you  wish  once  more  to  put  it  into  prac- 
tice, I  can  easily  bring  it  to  your  recollections.'  They 
all  answered  together,  as  though  with  one  voice,  that 
they  heartily  wished  to  recollect  it,  and  stood  attentive 
while  their  governess  was  looking  at  them,  in  eager  ex- 
pectation to  hear  what  she  had  to  say. 


LOOKING-GLASS.  165 

<  What  you  have  lost,  or  at  least  forgotten,  (replied 
Madam  D'Allone)  is  that  mutual  love  and  friendship 
which  you  once  had  for  each  other,  and  which  every 
sister  ought  cheerfully  to  cherish.  O  !  my  dearest  lit- 
tle friends,  how  have  you  contrived  to  forget  this,  and 
thereby  make  me  and  yourselves  miserable  !' 

Having  uttered  these  words,  which  were  interrupted 
by  sighs,  she  stopped  short,  while  tears  of  tenderness 
stole  down  her  cheeks.  The  young  ladies  appeared 
much  disconcerted,  and  struck  dumb  with  sorrow  and 
confusion.  Their  governess  held  out  her  arms,  and 
they  all  at  once  instantly  rushed  towards  her.  They 
sincerely  promised,  that  they  would  tenderly  love  each 
other  for  the  future,  and  perfectly  agree,  as  they  for- 
merly had  done. 

From  this'T:ime,  no  idle  peevishness  troubled  their 
harmonious  intercourse  ;  and,  instead  of  bickerings  and 
discontents  among  them,  nothing  was  seen  but  mutual 
condescension,  which  delighted  all  who  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  being  in  their  company.  May  this  serve  as  a 
useful  lesson  to  my  youthful  readers,  how  easy  it  is  for 
them  to  promote  or  disturb  their  happiness. 

PERUSE,  young  ladies*  Madame  D'Allone's  page, 
And  let  its  precepts  your  whole  heart  engage  : 
Then  shall  each  charm  and  virtue  of  the  fair, 
The  smile  of  kindness  and  the  modest  air  ; 
The  brow  by  wisdom  polish'd  and  serene, 
The  glow  of  health,  and  the  decorous  inein  ; 
The  eye,  that,  •  speaking  sense  distinct  and  clear/ 
Tells  in  its  rays*  what  pleasure  'tis  to  hear  ; 
The  tear  of  pity,  that,  like  glistening  dew, 
lmpearls  the  open  rose's  crimson  hue; 
The  robe  embraced  by  heav'nly  Venus'  zone, 
The  flowing  tresses  that  each  art  disown  ; 
Each  charm  of  body,  and  each  gift  of  mind, 
Which  Nature  gave,  or  culture  has  refin'd. 


lot* 


LOOKING-GLASS 


THE  BIRD'S  F.GG. 

JLYA  ASTER  Gregory  war,  fond  of  walking  in  a  wood, 
which  stood  at  a  short  distance  from  his  father's  house. 
The  wood  being  young,  the  trees  were  consequently 
small,  and  placed  very  near  to  each  other,  with  two 
or  three  paths  between  them.  As  he  was  one  day 
walking-  up  and  down,  in  order  to  rest  himself  a  little, 
he  placed  his  back  against  a  tvcef  whose  stem  was 
quite  slender,  and  therefore  ail  its  branches  shook  as 
soon  as  it  was  touched.  This  rustling  happened  to 
frighten  a  little  bird  who  sprung  from  a  neighboring 
bush,  and  flew  into  another  part  of  the  wood. 

Gregory  was  vexed  to  think  he  had  disturbed  the 
bird,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  bush,  in  hopes  of 
seeing  it  return. — While  he  was  thus  attentively  on  the 
watch,  he  imagined  he  saw  among  the  twisted  branch- 
es  something  like  a  tuft  of  hay.  As  his  curiosity  was 
raised  to  know  what  it  was,  he  went  up  close  to  the 
hedge,  and  found  this  tuft  of  hay  was  hollow  like  a 
bowl.     On  putting  aside  the  branches,  he  saw  some- 


LOOKING-GLASS.  W 

thing  like  little  balls  within  it,  which  were  spotted, 
tnd  of  an  oval  shape.  They  lay  close  to  each  other, 
on  something  very  soft.  '  Bless  rne,  (said  Gregory  ) 
this  must  be  certainly  what  I  have  heard  some  people 
call  a  bird's  nest,  and  the  balls  must  be  eggs.  They 
are  indeed  less  than  our  eggs,  but  then  our  hens  are  lar- 
ger than  these  birds.' 

He  had  some  thoughts,  at  first,  of  taking  away  the 
whole  nest ;  but  upon  second  consideration,  he  con- 
tented himself  with  taking  only  one  of  the  eggs,  with 
which  he  instantly  ran  home.  In  the  midst  of  his 
haste,  he  met  his  sister.  *  See  this  little  egg,  (said  he 
to  her)  I  just  now  found  it  in  a  nest,  in  which  were 
five  others.' 

She  desired  to  have  it  in  her  hand,  examined  it  at- 
tentively, and  then  returned  it  to  her  brother.  x\t  last 
they  began  rolling  it  up  and  down  a  table,  just  as  they 
would  a  ball.  One  pushed  it  one  way,  and  the  other 
a  different  way,  till  at  last  they  pushed  it  off  the  table, 
when  it  fell  on  the  floor  and  broke.  This  set  them  a 
crj-ing,  and  each  mutually  accused  the  other  of  being 
the  cause  of  this  sad  disaster. 

Their  mamma  happening  to  hear  them  cry,  came  to 
inquire  into  the  cause  of  it,  when  both  began  at  once 
telling  their  sorrows,  and  having  heard  their  different 
stories,  she  took  them  affectionately  by  the  hand,  and 
led  them  to  a  tree,  whose  stately  bows  afforded  a  plea- 
sant shade  to  a  verdant  bank,  on  which  they  all  sat 
down  together. 

'My  dear  children,  (said  their  mamma)  make  your- 
selves easy.  You  have  broken  the  egg  between  you, 
and  that,  to  be  sure,  is  a  misfortune  ;  but  it  is  of  to© 
trifling  a  nature  to  suffer  it  to  make   you   unhappy, 


168  LOGXING-GLA 

A  fur  all,  Gregory,  there  is  some  room  for  complaint 
against  you,  as  it  was  an  act  of  injustice  to  rob  the 
poor  bird  of  its  egg.  You  must  have  seen  how  the 
hen  places  her  eggs  in  a  nest,  on  which  she  sits  to 
warm  and  animate  them.  In  about  three  weeks,  from 
the  eggs  proceed  chickens,  which  pierce  the  shell,  and 
in  a  few  days  come  and  feed  out  of  your  hand. — This 
egg,  which  you  have  just  now  broken,  had  you  left  it 
in  the  nest,  would  have  become  a  sort  of  chick.  The 
bird  you  saw  fly  out  of  the  bush  was  probably  the  mo- 
ther, who  will,  very  likely,  return  again,  to  see  what 
mischief  you  have  done  her,  and  perhaps  she  will  for- 
sake it  altogether,  which  they  frequently  do  when  dis- 
turbed. 

'Though  the  loss  is  only  a  single  egg,  yet  that  per- 
haps will  inform  them  that  their  habitation  is  discover- 
ed when  they  have  every  thing  to  be  afraid  of  from 
our  violence.  They  guess,  that  when  their  little  ones 
shall  be  hatched,  those  that  robbed  them  of  an  cgg> 
will  return  and  seize  upon  their  infant  family.  If  this 
nest  you  have  been  robbing,  for  I  cannot  call  it  any 
thing  less  than  a  robbery,  should  be  on  that  account 
forsaken,  I  think  you  will  be  very  sorry  for  it.' 

Gregory  replied,  that  it  would  indeed  give  him 
much  uneasiness,  and  seemed  very  sorry  that  he  had 
meddled  with  the  egg.  'But,  (said  he  to  his  mamma) 
I  had  not  the  least  thought  of  what  you  have  been  tel- 
ling me  nor  did  I  suppose  there  could  be  any  harm  in 
bringing  it  to  my  sister,  for  it  was  principally  on  that 
account  that  I  took  it.' 

His  mamma  replied  that  she  readily  believed  him ;  for 
she  told  him  she  was  sensible,  that  he  had  too  good  a 
heart  to  wish  to  do  mischief  merely  for  the  sake  of  tor- 


LOOKING-GLASS.  \69 

Hlciiting  others.  Gregory  was,  indeed,  a  very  good 
boy,  and  was  as  remarkable  for  his  duty  to  his  parents, 
Ins  tender  attachment  to  his  sister,  and  his  universal 
benevolence  to  every  one. 

The  little  girl  observed  to  her  mamma,  that  the  nest 
which  her  brother  had  shewn  her,  did  not,  in  any  de- 
gree, resemble  the  swallows'  nests  that  were  seen  about 
the  corners  of  the  windows  of  some  houses.  'My 
dear,  (replied  her  mamma)  every  nest  is  not  alike 
any  more  than  every  bird,  some  being  great,  and 
others  little  ;  some  are  never  seen  to  perch  on  trees, 
while  others  are  hardly  ever  out  of  them ;  some  are 
bulky  and  inactive,  others  slim,  and  full  of  cunning 
and  industry ;  the  plumage  of  some  are  beautiful  be- 
yond description,  with  an  amazing  variety  of  colors, 
and  others  have  a  plain  and  homely  appearance  ;  some 
subist  on  fruits,  some  feed  upon  insects,  and  many  live 
by  maing  a  prey  of,  and  devouring  the  smaller  birds/ 

Here  her  daughter  exclaimed'  '  Oh,  what  wicked 
creatures!  I  am  sure  I  should  think  it  no  crime  to 
destroy  the  nests  of  such  unnatural  birds  I* — \  Very 
true,  (replied  her  mamma)  and  there  are  many  more 
of  your  way  of  thinking  ;  and  therefore  these  great 
birds,  who  live  upon  the  smaller  class,  build  their 
nests  in  places  where  they  cannot  be  easily  disturbed, 
such  as  in  woods,  in  crevices  of  rocks,  and  in  Other 
places  most  unfrequented  by  men,  or  at  Heights  be- 
yond our  reach. 

c  Since,  therefore,  my  dear  children,  these  birds 
are  greatly  different  from  each  other,  as  well  in  size, 
as  in  the  mode  of  living,  and  in  the  variety  of  their 
plumage,  it  will  naturally  follow,  that  their  nests 
must  also  differ.     The  lark  never  perches  on  a  tree, 

P 


IT©  LOOKING-GLASS. 

and  sings  only  when  mounting  in  the  air,  and  builds 
hej:  nest  on  the  ground.  The  swallow  builds  about 
the  roofs  of  houses,  under  what  we  call  the  eves, 
and  sometimes  in  the  corners  of  windows.  The  owl, 
who  flies  abroad  only  in  the  night,  seeks  out  deserted 
habitations,  or  some  hollow  tree,  wherein  to  deposit 
her  eggs  ;  and  the  eagles,  who  soar  above  the  clouds, 
till  absolutely  out  of  sight,  bring  forth  their  young  in 
the  cliffs  of  craggy  rocks.  Those  birds,  which  so 
prettily  sport  round  our  houses,  and  hop  from  branch 
to  branch,  make  their  nests  in  trees  and  hedges. 
Those  who  sport  on  the  water,  and  find  their  living 
therein,  build  their  nests  among  the  rushes  that  grow 
©n  the  banks. 

'We  will,  one  fine  day,  take  a  walk  into  the  little 
valley  that  terminates  our  large  meadow,  and  you 
will  there  see  a  number  of  these  pretty  creatures  busy 
in  selecting  the  materials,  of  which  they  compose 
their  nests.  You  will  observe  one  employed  in  carry- 
ing off  a  wheatcn  straw,  another  with  wool  or  feathers 
in  his  beak,  another  with  a  dried  leaf,  and  perhaps 
with  a  little  moss.  You  may  frequently  notice  the 
swallow,  on  the  borders  of  a  limpid  stream,  moist- 
ening in  the  water  a  little  bit  of  earth  which  he  holds 
in  his  beak,  and  with  this  he  builds  his  habitation  ; 
and,  though  the  outside  of  its  nest  is  formed  of  hard 
and  durable  materials,  the  inside  is  lined  with  the 
softest  and  warmest.  There  are  even  some  birds  who 
pull  off  their  own  feathers  to  make  up  a  comfortable 
bed,  wherein  to  secure  their  young  from  every  incle- 
mency of  the  elements. 

'Their  nests  are  made  large  or  small,  in  propor- 
tion to  the  number  of  eggs  they  are  to  contain.     Some 


LOOKING-GLASS.  171 

birds  hang  up  their  nests  by  a  kind  of  thread,  which 
they  have  the  skill,  to  form  of  flax,  of  different  sorts 
of  weeds,  and  of  the  webs  of  spiders.  Others 
place  it  in  the  middle  of  a  soft  and  gluey  substance, 
to  which  they  carefully  stick  many  feathers.  All 
birds  seek  retired  and  solitary  places  and  use  every 
endeavor  to  make  their  nests  strong  and  solid,  to  se- 
cure them  from  the  attacks  of  enemies  of  various 
species. 

'  It  is  in  this  kind  of  habitation  they  lay  their  eggs, 
where  the  mother,  and  at  times  the  father,  sits  upon 
them,  puts  every  thing  within  them  into  motion,  and 
at  last  produces  little  creatures,  who  break  through 
their  shell,  and  come  forth. 

'  I  doubt  not  but  you  have  often  seen  a  fly  in  win- 
ter, which  appeared  to  have  no  life  in  it ;  yet,  upon 
taking  it  into  your  hand,  the  warmth  proceeding 
from  it  has  brought  it  to  life..  It  is  nearly  the  same 
thing  with  birds,  the  perseverance  of  whose  parents, 
in  brooding  upon  their  efrgs,  converts  them  into  living 
creatures. 

*  While  the  mother  is  sitting,  the  cock  is  her  fedn* 
Stant  attendant,  and  amuses  her  with  his  music, 
When  the  young  birds  are  hatched,  the  old  ones  en- 
deavor to  release  them  from  the  confinement  of  the 
egg.  At  this  period,  their  diligence  is  redoubled, 
they  do  every  thing  to  nourish  and  defend  them,  and 
are  constantly  employed  in  that  interesting  pursuit. 
No  distance  deters  them  from  seeking  their  food,  of 
Which  they  make  an  equal  distribution,  every  one  re- 
ceiving in  his  turn  what  they  have  been  enabled  to  pro- 
cure. So  long  as  they  continue  young  and  helpless,  they 


rz£ 


175  LOOKING-GLASS. 

contrive  to  procure  such  food  as  is  adapted  to  their 
delicacy ;  but  as  soon  as  they  are  grown  stronger  by 

age  they  provide  for  them  food  of  a  more  solid  nature. 

4  The  pelican,  which  is  a  very  large  bird,  is  obliged 
to  go  a  great  distance  for  food  for  its  young,  and 
therefore  nature  has  provided  it  with  a  sort  of  bag, 
which  she  tills  with  such  food  as  she  knows  is  most 
agreeable  to  the  palate  of  her  young  ones.  She  warms 
what  she  procures,  and  by  such  means  makes  it  fitter 
for  their  tender  stomachs. 

'  While  they  are  thus  acting  the  parental  part,  they 
seem  to  be  forgetful  of  themselves,  and  attentive  only 
to  their  little  family.  On  the  approach  of  either  rain 
or  tempests,  they  hasten  to  their  nests,  and  cover  it 
as  well  as  they  can  with  expanded  wings,  thereby 
keeping  out  the  wind  and  water  from  hurting  their  in- 
fant brood.  All  their  nights  are  employed  in  nourish- 
ing and  keeping  them  warm.  The  most  timorous 
among  the  feathered  race,  who  will  fly  away  on  the 
least  noise  that  approaches  them,  and  tremble  at  the 
most  trifling  apprehensions  of  danger,  become  stran- 
gers to  fear  as  soon  as  they  have  a  young  family  to 
take  care  of,  and  are  inspired  with  courage  and  intre- 
pidity. We  see  an  instance  of  this  in  the  common  hen, 
who,  though  in  general  a  coward,  no  sooner  becomes 
a  parent,  than  she  gives  proofs  of  courage,  and  bold- 
ly stands  forth  in  defence  of  her  young.  She  will  face 
the  largest  dog,  and  will  not  run  even  from  a  man, 
who  shall  attempt  to  rob  her  of  her  young;. 

'  In  nearly  a  similar  manner,  the  little  birds  endea- 
vor to  protect  their  infant  family.  When  an  enemy 
approaches,  they  will  flutter  round  the  nest,  will  seem 


i 


LOOXING-GLAbS.  173 

to  call  out  for  assistance,  will  attack  the  invader,  and 
pursue  him.  The  mother  will  frequently  prefer  con- 
fining herself  with  them  to  the  pleasure  of  rambling 
through  the  woods,  and  will  not  quit  her  little  pro- 
geny.' 

Here  their  mamma  ended,  and  her  two  children 
promised  they  never  would  any  more  disturb  those 
pretty  feathered  animal?.  They  promised  only  to 
look  at  their  nests,  without  being  so  cruel  as  to  do 
them  any  harm.  They  said  they  would  be  satisfied 
with  gazing  on  them,  while  employed  in  the  delight- 
ful task  of  attending  on  their  young,  and  comforting 
and  caressing  their  unprotected  offspring. 

*  My  dear  children,  (said  their  mamma}  this  is  the 
conduct  you  ought  to  pursue.  Keep  your  resolutions, 
and  I  shall  love  you  the  more  tenderly  for  it.  Do  no 
injury  to  any  creature,  for  he  who  made  you,  made 
them  also.  Take  no  delight  in  giving  pain  to  the  most 
insignificant  part  of  the  creation  ;  but  endeavor,  on  all 
occasions,  to  contribute  to  their  happiness. 

ILL  custom?  by  degrees  to  habits  rise, 
111  habits  soon  become  exalted  vice; 
What  more  advance  can  mortals  make  in  sin 
So  near  perfection,  who  with  blood  begin  ? 

Let  plough  thy  steers ;  that  when  they  lose  their  breatk, 
To  Nature,  not  to  thee,  they  may  impute  their  death  : 
,  Let  goats  for  food  their  loaded  udders  lend, 
And  sheep  from  winter-cold  thy  sides  defend  ; 
But  neitker  springs;  nor  nets,  nor  snares  employ. 
And  be  no  more  ingenious  to  destroy. 
Free  as  in  air,  let  birds  on  earth  remain, 
Nor  let  insidious  glue  their  wings  constrain  j 

p  2 


174 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


Kor  opening  hounds  the  trembling  stag  affright; 
Nor  purple  feathers  intercept  his  flight  ; 
Nor  hooka  concealed  io  baits  for  fish  prepare, 
1\ or  lines  to  Leave  them  twinkling  up  in  air. 

Take  not  away  the  life  you  cannot  give  ; 
For  all  things  have  an  equal  right  to  live. 
Kill  noxious  creatures,  v  ere  'tis  sin  to  save  ; 
This  oily  just  prerogative  we  have  : 
But  nourish  life  with  vegetabli  food, 
AqU  shun  the  sacribsioua  taste  of  blood. 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


THE  COVETOUS  BOY. 

Y  OUNG  Samuel  was  the  only  son  of  a  capital  mer- 
chant, and.  was  tenderly  beloved  by  Lis  father.  He 
bad  by  no  means  a  bad  heart,  bis  countenance  was 
pleasing,  arid  bis  friends  would  all  have  been  very  fend 
of  him,  hid  he  net  shewn,  in  every  part  of  his  con- 
duct, a  covetous  propensity  that  eclipsed  all  bis  ac- 
complishments. 

His  covetous  disposition  made  him  wish  for  every 
thing  he  saw  others  possessed  of,  and  even  carried  him 
to  so  great  a  length,  that  he  would  not  share  among 
his  playmates  any  thing  he  had,  or  even  let  them  see 
it. 

It  was  with  little  Samuel  as  it  general!  v  is  with  eve- 
ry  body  else,  that  he  lost  more  than  he  gained  by  his 
avarice.  If  any  body  gave  him  any  sweetmeats,  he 
would  get  into  some  private  corner  of  the  house,  and 
there  swallow  them,  for  fear  any  of  his  acquaintances 
should  want  part  of  them.  His  father,  in  order  to  cure 
him  of  this  greedy  disposition;   used,  while  he  was 


LOOKING-CLA  SB. 

feasting  in  private,  to  give  a  double  portion  to  his 
companions.  lie  perceived  this,  and  therefore  left 
off  hiding  himself  ;  bat  he  no  sooner  fixed  his  eyes  on 
any  nicety,  than  he  appeared  ready  to  devour  it  at 
once,  ami  ptfrstied  the  ban 6  of  these  that  heid  it,  as  a 
vulture  does  its  pre  v. 

From  what  has  been  already  said,  his  father  may 
be  supposed  to  be  much  hurt  at  this  conduct  ;  and,  in 
order  to  save  himself  as  mn    i  possible,  he 

ceased   to  give  him  any  mora  &s,  or  even  have 

them  within  his  house,  so  thai  not,  at  any 

rate,  be  within  the  reach  of  bis  voracious  son. 

If  Samuel  had  a  pleasing  toy  of  any  kind,  he  would 
never  shew  it,  but  concealed  himself  in  the  enjoyment 
of  it,  without  ever  being-  happy.  If  he  had  any  sort 
of  fruit,  he  would  not  share  it  with  his  playmates,  but 
devour  it  in  private,  even  refusing  any  to  those  he  hap- 
pened to  love  most.  Consequently,  none  of  his  play- 
mates would  ever  give  him  a  part  of  what  they  had, 
and  seemed  always  desirous  of  shunning  his  company,  j 
When  he  chanced  to  be  engaged  in  a  quarrel  with  any 
one,  none  appeared  ready  to  take  his  part,  not  even  : 
when  they  knew  him  m  the  right  ;  and,  when  he  was 
in  the  wrong,  every  one  joined  against  him. 

It  one  day  happened,  that  a  little  boy  observed  him 
with  an  apple  in  his  hand,  and  gave  him  by  surprise  a 
knock  on  the  elbow,  which  made  him  let  the  apple 
fall.  However,  he  picked  it  up  hastily,  and  in  order 
to  revenge  himself  on  the  boy,  set  off  to  catch  him  ; 
but,  in  running,  fell  into  a  hog-pond,  and  had  like  to 
have  been  suffocated  in  the  soil.  He  exerted  all  his 
power  to  get  out,  but  to  no  effect ;  he  endeavored* 


LOOKING-GLASS.  177 

but  without  succeeding,  to  prevail  on  bis  playmates 
to  take  hold  of  his  hand  and  help  him  out. 

Instead  of  assisting  him,  they  laughed  at  his  distress, 
and  joyously  danced  about  the  pond,  from  which  he 
could  not  relieve  himself.  They  told  him  to  ask  the 
assistance  of  those,  to  whom  he  had  done  the  least 
kindness  ;  but,  among  ah  his  playmates,  there  was 
not  one,  whose  help  he  could  demand  on  that  score. 
At  last,  one  of  the  boys,  who  took  pity  on  him,  came 
forward  and  gave  him  his  hand,  when  he  safely  got 
out. 

Samuel  shook  off  the  mud  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
then,  to  shew  his  gratitude  to  the  little  boy  who  had 
assisted  him,  he  bit  off  about  a  quarter  of  the  apple 
which  had  caused  this  disaster,  and  which  he  never  let 
go,  and  desired  him  to  accept  of  it.  But  the  boy,  dis- 
gusted with  so  pitiful  a  gift,  took  the  morsel,  and  then 
riling  it  in  his  face  ;  an  J  this  served  as  a  signal  for  all 
the  boys  to  scout  him.  They  pursued  Samuel  quite 
borne,  hooting  him  ail  the  way  he  went. 

This  was  the  first  time  lie  had  ever  been  hooted, 
and,  as  he  did  not  want  for  feeling,  it  threw  him  into  a 
depth  of  thought.  lie  kept  out  of  his  iiither's  presence, 
and  confine:]  himself  to  his  room  for  some  days.  There 
he  reasoned  with  himself  on  the  cause  that  could  pro- 
duce such  treatment  from  las  playfellows.  *  For  what 
reason,  (said  he  to  himself)  could  my  little  neighbor, 
who  even  lent  me  his  hand  to  get  out  of  the  pond, 
throw  the  apple  in  nay  face,  and  set  the  bovs  to  hoot 
me  ?  Why  has  he  so  many  good  friends,  while  I  have 
not  a  single  one  ?' 

On  comparing  the  good  boy's  behavior  with  his  own, 
he  soon  discovered  the  reason.     To  become  sensible 


17$  LOOKING-GLASS. 

of  our  errors  is  half  the  work  of  reformation.  He  re- 
collected, that  he  had  observed  his  friend  was  always 
ready  to  help  every  one  ;  that,  whenever  he  had  any 
fruit,  confectionary,  or  the  like,  he  seemed  to  feel 
more  pleasure  in  sharing  it  with  his  companions,  than 
in  eating  it  himself,  and  had  no  kind  of  amusement  in 
which  he  did  not  wish  every  one  to  bear  a  part.  On 
this  short  review  of  circumstances  he  plainly  percei- 
ved, wherein  lay  the  difference  between  himself  and 
this  little  good  boy.  He  at  last  resolved  to  imitate 
him  ;  and  the  next  day,  filling  his  pockets  with  fruit, 
he  ran  up  to  every  boy  he  met,  and  gave  him  a  part 
of  it,  but  he  could  not,  on  a  sudden,  give  up  self, 
having  left  a  little  in  his  pocket  to  eat  at  home  in  pri- 
vate. 

Though  it  is  evident,  that  he  had  not  yet  completely 
conquered  his  avarice,  \vt  he  was  not  a  little  pleased 
with  the  advances  he  had  made  since  his  companions 
were  now,  on  their  part,  more  generous  to  him  ;  they 
shewed  themselves  much  more  satisfied  with  his  com- 
pany, and  admitted  him  a  partner  in  all  their  little 
pastimes  ;  they  divided  with  turn  whatever  they  hap- 
pened to  have,  and  he  always  went  home  pleased  and 
satisfied. 

Soon  after,  he  made  a  still  greater  progress  in  con- 
quering his  seliish  disposition  ;  for  he  pulled  out  of  his 
pocket  every  thing  he  had;  and  divided  it  into  as  many 
shares  as  there  were  mouths  to  eat  it,  without  reserv- 
ing any  more  than  an  equal  part  for  himself.  Indeed, 
it  was  the  general  opinion  of  the  boys,  that  his  own 
share  was  the  least.  This  day  he  was  much  more  sa- 
tisfied than  before,  and  went  home  gay  and  cheerful. 

By  pursuing  this  conduct,  he  soon  acquired  a  ge- 


LOOKING-GLASS.  17$ 

nerous  habit,  and  became  liberal  even  to  those  who 
had  nothing  to  give  in  return.  He  consequently  ac- 
quired the  love  and  esteem  of  his  companions,  who  no 
sooner  saw  him  than  they  ran  to  meet  him  with  joyful 
countenances,  and  made  his  pleasure  their  own.  Thus, 
instead  of  being  miserable  and  wretched  through  ava- 
rice,  he  became  completely  happy  in  the  practice  of 
generosity. 

His  father  was  undoubtedly  highly  pleased  with  this 
change,  and  tenderly  embracing  him,  promised  to  re- 
fuse him  nothing  in  future  that  might  add  to  his  plea- 
sure and  delight.  Samuel  hereby  learned  in  what  true 
happiness  consists. 

HAPPY  the  man,  and  happy  he  alone, 

He,  who  can  call  to-day  his  own  : 

He  who,  secure  within,  can  say, 

To-morrow  do  thy  worst,  for  I  have  livVt  to-day, 

Be  fair,  or  foul,  or  rain,  or  shine, 

The  joys  I  have  possess 'd,  in  spite  of  fate  are  mine, 

Not  Heav'n  itself  upon  the  past  has  pow'r  ; 
Bat  what  has  been,  has  been,  and  Thave  had  my  hour. 
Fortune,  that,  with  malicious  joy. 

Does  man  her  slave  oppress, 
Proud  of  her  office  to  destroy, 
Is  seldom  pleas'd  to  bless  : 
Still  various  and  unconstant  still, 
But  with  an  inclination  to  be  ill, 

Promotes,  degrades,  delights  in  strife, 
And  makes  a  lottery  of  life. 
I  can  enjoy  her  while  she's  kind  ; 
But  when  she  dances  in  the  wind, 
And  shakes  the  wings  and  will  not  stay, 
I  puff  the  flutt'ring  thing  away  : 


"UO 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


The  little  or  the  much  she  gave,  is  quietly  resign 'd 
Content  with  poverty,  my  soul  I  arm  ; 
And  virtue,  tho' in  rugs,  will  ktep  me  warm. 

What  is't  to  me, 
Who  never  sail  in  her  unfaithful  sea, 
If  storms  arise,  and  clouds  grow  black  ; 
If  the  mast  split,  and  threaten  wreck? 
Then  let  the  greedy  merchant  fear 

For  his  ill-gotten  gain  ; 
And  pray  to  gods  that  will  not  hear, 
While  the  debating  winds  and  billows  bear 
His  wealth  into  the  main. 
For  me,  secure  from  fortune's  blows. 
Secure  of  what  I  cannot  lose, 
In  my  small  pinnace  I  can  sail, 
Contemning  all  the  blustering  roar  ; 
And  running  with  a  merry  gale, 
With  friendly  stars  my  safety  seek 
Within  some  little  winding  creek  ; 
And  see  the  storm  ashore. 


££«  '"$>-. '"j£ 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


151 


DISSIPATION,  THE  CERTAIN  ROAD  TO  RUIN. 

A.  Young  man,  whose  name  was  Humphries,  was  a 
dull  companion,  but  an  excellent  workman.  Nothing" 
ran  in  his  head  so  much  as  the  wish  to  become  a  mas- 
ter, but  he  had  not  mone}-  enough  to  gratify  that  wish. 
A  merchant,  however,  who  was  well  acquainted  with 
his  industry,  lent  him  an  hundred  pounds,  in  order  that 
he  might  open  shop  in  a  proper  stile. 

It  will  from  hence  naturally  follow,  that  Humphries 
thought  himself  one  of  the  happiest  men  in  the  world. 
He  supposed  his  warehouse  already  filled  with  goods, 
be  reckoned  how  many  customers  would  come  to  buy 
them,  and  what  would  be  his  profits  thereon. 

In  the  midst  of  these  extravagant  flights  of  fancy, 
he  perceived  an  alehouse.  '  Come,  (said  be  on  entering" 
\t)  I  will  indulge  myself  with  spending  one  six  pence  of 
this  money .'  He  hesitated,  however,  some  few  mo- 
ments, about  calling  for  punch  which  was  his  favorite 
liquor,  as  his  conscience  loudly  told  him,  that  his  time 
for  enjoyment  ought  to  be  at  some  distance,  and  not 

Q 


IM  LOOKING-GLASS. 

till  he  had  paid  his  friend  the  money  he  had  borrowed  J 

that  it  wuiild  not  be  honest  in  him,  at  present,  to  spend 
a  farthing  of  that  money  but  in  absolute  necessaries. 
With  these  right  ideas  he  was  nearly  leaving  the  ale- 
house ;  but,  methinking  himself,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  if  he  spent  a  sixpence  of  his  money,  he  should 
still  have  an  hundred  pounds  all  but  that  sixpence,  that 
such  a  sum  was  fully  sufficient  to  set  him  up  in  trade, 
and  that  a  single  half  hour's  industry  would  amply 
make  amends  for  such  a  trilling  pleasure  as  he  wished 
then  to  enjoy. 

He  called  for  his  punch,  and  the  first  glass  banished 
all  his  former  qualms,  little  thinking  that  such  a  con* 
duct  would,  by  insensible  degrees,  open  a  way  to  his 
ruin.  The  next  day  he  recollected  the  pleasures  of  the 
former  glass,  and  found  it  easy  to  reconcile  his  con- 
science to  the  spending  of  another  sixpence.  He 
knew  he  should  still  have  an  hundred  pounds  left 
all  but  one  shilling. 

The  love  of  liquor  had  at  last  completely  conquered 
him,  and  every  succeeding  day  he  constantly  returned 
to  his  favorite  alehouse,  and  gradually  increased  his 
quantity,  till  he  spent  two  shillings  and  sixpence  at 
each  sitting.  Here  he  seemed  to  make  a  stand,  and 
every  time  he  went  he  consoled  himself  with  saying, 
that  he  was  spending  only  half-a-crown,  and  that  he 
need  not  fear  but  he  should  have  enough  to  carry  on  his 
trade. 

By  this  delusive  way  of  reasoning,  he  silenced  the 
prudent  whispers  of  conscience,  which  would  some- 
times, in  spite  even  of  liquor,  break  in  upon  him,  and 
remind  him,  that  the  proper  u^e  of  money  consisted  in 
prudently  applying  every  part  of  it  to  advantageous 


LOOKING-GLASS. 

purposes.  Tims  you  see  how  the  human  mind  is  led 
into  destructive  extravagances  by  insensible  degrees. 
Industry  has  no  longer  any  charms  to  allure  him,  being" 
blindly  persuaded,  that  the  money  he  had  borrowed 
would  prove  an  inexhaustible  resource  for  all  his  extra- 
vagance. He  was  at  last  convinced,  and  his  conviction  sud- 
denly fell  upon  him  like  a  clap  of  thunder,  that  he  could 
not  recover  the  effects  of  his  preceding  dissipation,  and 
that  his  generous  benefactor  would  have  little  inclination 
to  lend  another  hundred  pounds  to  a  man,  who  had  so 
shamefully  abused  his  kindness  in  the  first  instance. 

Entirely  overcome  with  shame  and  confusion,  his 
recourse  to  hard  drinking,  merely  to  quiet  his  con- 
science and  reflections,  served  only  to  bring  on  his  ru- 
in the  sooner.  At  last,  the  fatal  moment  arrived,  when 
quite  disgusted  at  the  thought  of  industry,  and  becom- 
ing an  object  of  horror  even  to  himself,  life  became 
insupportable,  and  nothing  presented  themselves  to 
him  but  scenes  of  poverty,  desolation,  and  remorse. 

Overtaken  by  despair,  he  tied  from  his  <  -  i  try,  and 
joined  a  gang  of  smugglers,  whose  ravages  were 
dreaded  through  every  town  and  village  on  the  coast. 
Heaven,  however,  did  not  permit  these  iniquities  to 
have  a  tang  reign  ;  for  a  disgraceful  death  soon  put  a 
period  to  the  existence  of  this  unhappy  wretch. 

Alas  !  had  he  listened  to  the  first  dictates  of  reason, 
and  been  wrought  upon  by  the  reproaches  of  his  con- 
science, he  might  have  been  easy  and  happy  in  his 
situation,  and  have  comfortably  enjoyed  the  repose  of 
a  reputable  old  age,  instead  of  coming  to  that  deplo- 
rable end,  which  is  the  certain  reward  of  vice  and 

foilj. 


m 


LOO  LASS. 


UNHAPPY  man,  whom  sorrow  thi  *gt! 

So  different  ill  alternately  engage  ! 

Who  drinksj  a!u>> !  but  to  forget ;  nor  sees 

That  melancholy  sl< 

Mem'ry  confus'd  and  interrupted  thought, 

Death's  harbingers,  IU  .  it; 

And  in  the  flowers  that  vvre  bowfj, 

Fell  addc 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


!85 


CALUMNY  AND  SCANDAL  GREAT  ENEMIES  T« 
SOCIETY. 

I  HOUGH  Maria  was  of  a  tolerable  good  temper, 
yet  she  had  contracted  a  most  mischievous  vice,  and 
that  was  calumny.  Whenever  she  fancied  she  saw  any 
thing  amiss  in  others,  though  they  were  her  most  inti- 
mate friends,  she  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  publish- 
ing it  to  the  world. 

The  inexperience  of  her  age  frequently  led  her  t<* 
ascribe  indifferent  actions  to  improper  motives,  and  a 
single  word,  or  violation  of  disposition,  was  sufficient 
to  raise  in  her  breast  the  worst  suspicion  *,  with  which, 
as  soon  as  she  had  formed  them,  she  would  run  into 
company,  and  there  publish  them  as  indubitable  facte. 
As  she  was  never  at  a  loss  for  embellishments  from 
her  own  fancy,  in  order  to  make  her  tales  appear  the 
more  plausible,  it  may  easily  be  supposed  what  mis- 
chief such  a  conduct  was  capable  of  producing.  In  a 
little  time,  all  the  families  in  her  neighborhood  were 
set  together  by  the  ears,  and  the  seeds  of  discord  scon 

Q  2 


186  LOOKING-GLASS 

after  sprung    up  among   individual*;    husbands 

wives,  brothers  and  sisters,  :  -  arid  servants,  com- 
menced perpetual  variance  between  each  other.  All 
on  a  sudden  mutual  confidence  seemed  to  be  Lost  in 
every  place  where  Maria  visited. 

Matters  at  last  were  carried  so  far,  that  every  one 
shut  their  doors  against  her^  as  they  would  have  done 
against  any  one  tainted  with  the  plague ;  but  neither 
hatred  nor  humiliation  could  reform  a  vice,  which  cus- 
tom and  prejudice  had  so  deeply  rivetted  in  her  heart. 

This  glorious  work  of  reformation  was  reserved  for 
Angelica,  her  cousin,  who  was  the  only  one  left  that 
would  keep  her  company,  and  who  lived  in  hopes, 
that  she  should  in  the  end  be  able  to  convince  her  of 
her  ruinous  conduct. 

Maria  went  one  day  to  see  her  cousin,  and  entertain- 
ed her  as  usual  with  a  long  recital  of  scandal  against 
their  common  friends,  though  she  well  knew  that  such 
tales  were  disagreeable  to  Angelica.  '  And  now,  m}^ 
dear,  (said  Maria,  having  stopped  for  want  of  breath) 
your  turn  is  come  to  tell  me  something.  You  see 
*uch  a  variety  of  company,  that  you  surely  must  be 
acquainted  with  a  number  of  anecdotes.' 

'  My  dear  Maria,  (answered  Angelica)  whenever  I 
visit  my  friends,  it  is  for  the  sake  of  enjoying  their 
company  ;  and  1  am  too  sensible  of  my  own  interest 
to  forfeit  their  esteem,  by  exposing  their  defects.  In- 
deed, I  am  sensible  of  so  many  errors  in  myself,  and 
find  it  so  difficult  to  correct  them,  that  I  have  no 
leisure  to  contemplate  the  imperfections  of  others. 
Having  every  reason  to  wish  for  their  candor  and  in- 
dulgence, I  readily  grant  them  mine  ;  and  my  atten- 
tion is  constantly  turned  to  discover  what  is  corrunea- 


LOOKING-GLASS.  187 

dable  in  them,  in  order  that  I  may  make  such  perfec- 
tions my  own.  Before  we  presume  to  censure  ether:', 
we  ought  to  be  certain  that  we  have  no  faults  ourselves , 
I  cannot  therefore,  but  congratulate  you  on  that  fault- 
less state,  which  lam  so  unhappy  as  to  want.  Con-* 
tinue,  my  clear  Maria,  this  employment  of  a  charitable 
censor,  who  would  lead  the  world  to  virtue  by  expo- 
sing the  deformity  of  vice,  and  you  cannot  fail  of 
meeting  your  deserts.' 

Maria  well  knew  how  much  she  was  the  public  ob- 
ject of  aversion  and  disgust,  and  therefore  could  not 
help  feeling  the  irony  of  Angelica.  From  that  day, 
she  began  very  seriously  to  reflect  on  the  danger  of 
her  indiscretion,  and  trembling  at  the  recollection  of 
those  mischiefs  she  had  caused,  determined  to  prevent 
their  progress. 

She  found  it  difficult  to  throw  off  the  custom  she 
had  long  indulged  of  viewing  things  on  the  worst  side 
of  the  question.  At  last,  however,  she  became  so 
perfectly  reformed,  that  she  studied  only  the  pleasing 
parts  of  characters,  and  was  never  heard  to  speak  ill 
of  any  one. 

Maria  became  more  and  more  convinced  of  the  per- 
nicious consequences  that  arise  from  exposing  the 
faults  of  others,  and  began  to  feel  the  pleasing  satisfac- 
tion of  universal  charity.  My  dear  children,  shun  tha 
vice  of  scandal,  and  still  more  being  the  authors  of  it? 
as  you  would  plague,  pestilence,  and  famine. 

WHAT  is  that  vice  which  still  prevails, ' 
When  almost  every  passion  fails  ; 
Which  with  our  very  dawn  begun* 
Nor  ends  but  with  our  setting  sun ; 


185 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


Which,  lika  a  noxious  weed,  can 
The  fairest  flovv'rs,  and  choke  the  .soil  ? 
'Tis  Calumny- — with  .shame  I  own, 
The  vice  of  human  kind  alone. 

Th'  insidious  slandering  thief  is  worse 
Than  the  poor  rogue  who  steals  your  purse. 
Riy,  he  purloins  your  glitt'nng  store  ; 
Who  takes  your  gold,  takes  trash — no  more  ; 

Perhaps  he  pilfers — to  be  i'vd 

Ah  !  guiltless  wretch  who  steals  for  bread  ! 
But  the  dark  villain  who  shall  aim 
To  blast  thy  fair,  thy  spotless  name, 
He'd  steal  a  precious  gem  away, 
Steal  what  both  Indies  can't  repay  ! 

Be  good  yourself,  nor  think  another's  shame 
Can  raise  your  merit,  or  adorn  your  fame  ; 
Virtue  is  amiable,  mild,  serene, 
Without  all  beauty,  and  all  peace  within. 


LOCKING-CLASS. 


\W 


CIAKISSA;  OR,  THE  GRATEFUL  ORPHAN. 
THE  amiable  Dormda,  soon  after  the  misfortune  of 
losing  her  husband,  was  so  unhappy  as  to  have  a  few- 
suit  determined  to  her  disadvantage,  and  thereby  lost 
great  part  of  her  possessions,  which  were  taken  from 
her  with  the  met  unrelenting  hand.  This  reduced 
her  to  the  necessity  of  selling  all  her  furniture,  and 
the  greater  part  o^  her  jewels.  The  produce  of  these 
were  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  banker,  and  retired  to 
a  village,  where  she  could  live  much  cheaper  than  in 
the  metropolis,  and  with  tolerable  decency. 

She  had  not  passed  move  than  two  months  in  this  re- 
treat, when  information  was  brought  her,  that  her 
banker  had  failed  in  trade,  and  consequently  all  her 
money  was  lost.  Judge  what  must  be  the  horrors  of 
her  situation  !  Sickness  and  grief  had  so  debilitated  her 
constitution,  that  she  was  unable  to  do  any  kind  of 
work,  whereby  to  procure  a  subsistence  ;  and,  after 
having  passed  her  youth  in  ease  and  pleasure,  she  had 


LOOKING-*;  i  [si 

no  resources  left  in  the  evening  of  her  life,  but  that 
of  a  work-house,  or  common  beggary. 

Not  one  of  her  acquaintance  would  see  her,  nor  con- 
descend to  take  the  bast  interest  in  her  sufferings.  Be- 
jug  brought  by  her  husband  from  a  foreign  country 
she  had  no  friends  to  fly  to  for  assistance,  except  a 
distant  relation,  whom  she  had  brought  with  her  to 
England,  and  who,  by  her  husband's  credit,  gained 
great  riches  ;  but  this  man's  avarice  was  greater  than 
Ins  wealth,  and  there  was  little  charity  to  be  expected 
from  a  man,  who  denied  himself  the  common  necessa- 
ries of  life. 

Afflicted  virtue,  however,  always  finds  resource  in 
the  bounteous  hands  of  Providence,  and  she  found  as- 
sistance where  she  little  expected  it.  In  the  former 
days  of  her  prosperity,  she  had  adopted  a  female  or- 
phan, whose  name  was  Clarissa,  who  now  became  her 
guardian  and  protector.  Clarissa  had  a  grateful  heart ; 
she  wept  for  the  misfortunes  of  her  friend,  but  she  re- 
joiced at  the  thoughts  of  having  an  opportunity  to 
shew  her  gratitude. 

When  Dorinda  mentioned  her  design  of  seeking  re- 
fuge in  a  parish  work-house— <  No,  (said  Clarissa)  you 
shall  never  leave  me.  From  your  tenderness  I  fonn< 
ly  received  the  indulgences  of  a  beloved  child  ;  and,  it% 
in  your  prosperity  I  thought  myself  happy  in  the  idea 
of  being  so  nearly  related  to  you,  by  adoption,  I  still 
think  it  more  so  now  I  see  you  in  adversity.  Thank 
Heaven  and  your  adoption  for  my  comfortable  situa- 
tion !  your  maternal  conduct  was  amply  displayed  in 
teaching  me  all  the  necessary  female  arts  ;  and  I  am 
happy  in  the  reflection,  that  I  can  make  use  of  my 
knowledge  for  your  sake.     With  health  and  courage, 


LOOKING-GLASS.  1S1 

I  fear  not  being  able  to  procure  for  us  both  at  least  a 
comfortable  living.' 

This  generous  offer  exceedingly  affected  the  unhap- 
py widow,  who  embraced  Clarissa,  and  with  joy  ac- 
cepted of  her  proposal.  This  amiable  girl,  in  her 
turn,  became  the  mother,  by  adoption,  of  her  former 
benefactress.  Not  contented  with  feeding  her  with  the 
produce  of  an  unremitted  labor,  she  consoled  her  in  afflic- 
tion, attended  her  in  sickness,  and  endeavored,  by  the 
tenderest  methods,  to  soften  the  iron  hand  of  fortune. 

For  two  years  did  the  constancy  and  ardor  of  Claris- 
sa continue  with  unwearied  attention,  and  her  only  hap- 
piness seemed  to  consist  in  promoting  that  of  her  friend, 
At  the  end  of  that  period,  when  death  relieved  the  un- 
happy Dorinda  from  the  cares  and  troubles  of  this  life, 
she  sincerely  lamented  her  death,  and  bewailed  it  as  a 
grievous  misfortune. 

A  short  time  after  died  also  the  relation  of  Dorinda, 
of  whom  we  have  lately  spoken,  and  who  had  shewn 
himself  so  shamefully  insensible  to  every  claim  of  gra- 
titude and  kindred.  As  he  could  not  carry  his  riches 
with  him,  he  supposed  that  it  would  be  making  some 
atonement  for  his  ungenerous  conduct,  by  leaving  the 
injured  Dorinda  every  thing  he  possessed,  Alas  !  it 
came  too  late,  for  she  was  no  more  ! 

The  amiable  Dorinda  had  not,  before  her  death,  the 
consolation  of  knowing  that  such  a  change  had  hap- 
pened in  her  fortune,  as  in  that  case  she  might  have 
easily  tui  ;ed  it  to  the  advantage  of  the  generous  Cla- 
rissa. This  large  fortune,  therefore,  for  want  of  an 
heir,  fell  to  the  king  ;  but  Provideucc  so  directed  it, 
that  the  generous  conduct  of  the  orphan  to  her  bene- 
factress reached  the  ears  of  the  prince.     i  Ah  I  then, 


m  LOOKING-GLAS 

(said  be)  she  merii  nberitance!  I  renounce  my 

right  in  her  favor,  and  sliull  be  happy  in  being  her  fa- 
ther  and  friend. " 

This  generous  act  of  the  king  was  applauded  by  the 
whole  nation  ;  and  Clarissa,  having  thus  received  so 
glorious  a  reward  for  her  gratitude,  employed  it  in  the 
maintenance  of  orphans,  such  as  she  herself  had  been. 
It  was  the  summit  of  her  delight,  to  inspire  them  with, 
sentiments  similar  to  those  she  herself  possessed. 

I  READ  God's  awful  name  emblazon'd  high 
With  golden  letters  on  th'  illumin'd  sky  ; 
Nor  less  the  mystic  characters  I  see 
Wrought  in  each  flow'r,  inscrib*d  on  ev'ry  trcs  ; 
In  ev'ry  leaf  that  trembles  to  the  breeze 
I  hear  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees. 
With  thee  in  shady  solitudes  I  walk, 
With  thee  in  busy  crowded  cities  talk  : 
In  every  creature  own  thy  forming  power, 
In  each  event  thy  providence  adore. 

Thy  hopes  shall  animate  my  drooping  soul* 
Thy  precepts  guide  me,  and  thy  fear  controul ; 
Thus  shall  I  rest,  unmov'd  by  all  alarms, 
Secure  within  the  temple  of  thine  arms 
From  anxious  cares  from  gloomy  terrors  free, 
And  feel  myself  omnipotent  in  thee. 

Then  when  the  last,  the  closing  hour  draws  nigh; 
Aral  earth  recedes  before  my  swimming  eye  ; 
When  trembling  on  the  doubtful  edge  of  fate 
I  stand,  and  stretch  my  view  to  either  State  ; 
Teach  me  to  quit  this  transitory  scene 
With  decent  triumph  and  a  look  -serene  ; 
Teach  me  to  fix  my  ardent  hopes  on  high, 
And,  haviug  liv'd  to  thee,  in  thee  to  dio« 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


195 


RETURNING  GOOD  FOR  EVIL,  THE  NOBLEST  RE- 
VENGE. 

A  WILL  be  revenged  on  him,  that  I  will,  and  make 
him  heartily  repent  it, 'said  little  Philip  to  himself,  with 
a  countenance  quite  red  with  anger.  His  mind  was  so 
engaged,  that  as  he  walked  along,  he  did  not  see  his 
dear  friend,  Stephen,  who  happened  at  that  instant  to 
meet  him,  and  consequently  heard  what  he  had  said. 

e  Who  is  that,  (said  Stephen)  that  you  intend  to  be 
revenged  on  ?'  Philip,  as  though  awakened  from  a 
dream,  stopped  short,  and  looking  at  his  friend,  soon 
resumed  the  smile  that  was  natural  to  his  countenance. 
c  Ah  !  (said  he)  come  With  me,  my  friend,  and  you 
shall  see  whom  I  will  be  revenged  on.  I  believe  you 
remember  my  supple  jack,  a  very  pretty  little  cane, 
which  my  father  gave  me.  You  see  it  is  now  all  in 
pieces.  It  was  farmer  Robinson's  son,  who  lives  in 
yonder  thatched  cottage,  that  reduced  it  to  this  worth* 

l«ss  state.' 

R 


191  LOOKLV 

Stephen  very  coolly  asked  him,  what  induced  the 
fanner's  son  to  break  it.  *  I  was  walking  very  peacea- 
bly along,  (replied  Philip)  and  was  playing  with  my 
cane,  by  twisting  it  round  my  body.  By  some  acci- 
dent or  other,  one  of  the  two  ends  got  out  of  my  hand 
when  I  was  opposite  the  gate  just  by  the  wooden  bridge, 
and  where  the  little  miscreant  had  put  down  a  pitcher 
full  of  water,  which  he  was  carrying  home  from  the 
well.  It  so  happened,  that  my  cane,  in  springing, 
overset  the  pitcher,  but  did  not  break  it.  He  came  up 
close  to  me,  and  began  to  call  me  names,  when  I  as- 
sured him  I  did  not  intend  any  harm,  what  I  had  done 
was  by  accident,  and  I  was  very  sorry  for  it.  Without 
paying  any  regard  to  what  I  said,  he  instantly  seized 
my  supple  jack,  and  twisted  it  as  you  here  see  ;  but  I 
Will  make  him  heartily  repent  it.' 

<  To  be  sure,  (said  Stephen)  he  is  a  very  wicked  boy, 
and  is  already  very  properly  punished  for  it,  since  no- 
body likes  him,  nor  will  do  any  thing  for  him.  He 
finds  it  very  difficult  to  get  any  companion  to  play  with 
him,  and  if  he  attempts  to  intrude  himself  into  their 
company,  they  will  all  instantly  leavehim.  To  consider 
this  properly,  I  think,  should  be  sufficient  revenge  for 

you.* 

'  All  this  is  true,  (replied  Philip)  but  he  has  brokeri 
my  cane.  It  was  a  present  from  my  papa,  and  a  very 
pretty  cane  you  know  it  was.  My  father  will  perhaps 
ask  me  what  is  become  of  it ;  and,  as  he  will  suppose 
I  have  carelessly  lost  his  present,  he  will  probably  be 
angry  with  me,  of  which  this  little  saucy  fellow  will 
be  the  cause.  I  offered  to  fill  his  pitcher  again,  having 
knocked  it  down  by  accident — -I  will  be  revenged.' 

1  My  dear  friend,  (said  Stephen)  I  think  you  will  act 


LOOKING-GLASS.  195 

better  in  not  minding  him,  as  your  contempt  will  be 
the  best  punishment  you  can  inflict  on  him.  He  is  not 
upon  a  level  with  you,  and  you  may  be. assured  that  he 
will  always  be  able  to  do  more  mischief  to  you,  than 
you  would  choose  to  do  him.  And  now  I  think  of  it. 
[  will  tell  you  what  happened  to  him  not  long  since. 

6  Very  unluckily  for  him,  he  chanced  to  see  a  bee 
hovering  about  a  flower,  which  he  caught  ;  and  was 
going  to  pull  off  its  wings  out  of  sport,  when  the  ani- 
mal found  means  to  sting  him,  and  then  flew  away  in 
safety  to  the  hive.  The  pain  put  him  into  a  most  furi- 
ous passion,  and,  like  you,  he  vowed  to  take  a  severe 
revenge.  He  accordingly  procured  a  little  hazle  stick, 
and  thrust  it  through  the  hole  into  the  bee-hive,  twist- 
ing it  about  therein.  By  these  means,  he  killed  several 
of  the  little  animals  ;  but,  in  an  instant,  all  the  swarm 
issued  out,  and  falling  upon  him,  stung  him  in  a  thou- 
sand different  places.  You  will  naturally  suppose  that 
he  uttered  the  most  piercing  cries,  and  rolled  upon  the 
ground  in  the  excess  of  his  agony.  His  father  ran  to 
him,  but  could  not,  without  the  greatest  difficulty,  put 
the  bees  to  flight,  after  having  stung  him  so  severely, 
that  he  was  confined  several  days  to  his  bed. 

1  Thus,  you  see,  he  was  not  very  successful  in  his 
pursuit  of  revenge.  I  would  advise  you  therefore  to 
pass  over  his  insult,  and  leave  others  to  punish  him, 
without  your  taking  any  part  in  it.  Besides,  he  is  a 
wicked  boj~,  and  much  stronger  than  you  are ;  so  that 
your  ability  to  obtain  revenge  may  be  doubtful.' 

{ I  must  own,  (replied  Philip)  that  your  advice  seems 

very  good.     So  come  along  with  me,  and  I  will  go  and 

.tell  my  father  the  whole  matter,  and  I  think  he  will  not 

be  angry  with  me.     It  is  not  the  cane  that  I  value  of 


LOOKING-GLASS. 

any  consideration  than  that  it  was  my  father's  present, 
and  I  would  wish  to  convince  him  that  I  take  care  of 
every  thing  he  gives  me.'  He  and  his  friend  then  went 
together,  and  Philip  told  his  lather  what  had  happen- 
ed, who  thanked  Stephen  for  the  good  advice  he  had 
given  his  son,  and  gave  Philip  another  cane  exactly 
iike  the.  first. 

A  ihw  days  afterwards,  Philip  saw  this  ill-natured 
boy  Kill  as  he  was  carrying  home  a  very  heavy  log  of 
wood,  which  lie  could  not  get  up  again.  Philip  ran  to 
him,  and  replaced  it  on  his  shoulder. 

Young  Robinson  was  quite  ashamed  at  the  thought 
of  having  received  this  kind  assistance  from  a  youth  he 
had  treated  so  badly,  and  heartily  repented  of  his  be- 
havior. Philip  went  home  quite  satisfied,  to  think  he 
had  assisted  one  he  did  not  love,  and  from  pure  mo- 
tives of  tenderness  and  humanity.  i  This,  (said  he)  is 
the  noblest  vengeance  I  could  take,  in  returning  good 
for  evil.' 

THE  man  whose  mind,  on  virtue  beat, 
Pursues  some  greatly  good  intent, 

With  undiverted  aim, 
Serene  beholds  the  angry  crowd  ; 
JNor  can  their  clamors,  iierce  and  loud, 

His  stuhhorn  honor  tame. 
lSTot  the  proud  tyrant's  fiercest  threat, 
l\or  storms,  that  from  their  dark  retreat 

The  lawless  surges  wake, 
Nor  Jove's  dread  bolt,  that  shakes  the  pole, 
The  firmer  purpose  of  his  soul 

With  all  its  pow'r  can  shake. 
Should  nature's  frame  in  ruins  fall, 
And  chaos  o'er  the  sinking  ball 

Resume  primeval  sway, 
His  courage  chance  and  fate  defies, 
Nor  feels  the  wreck  of  earth  and  skies 

Obstruct  its  destin'd  way. 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


197 


GREY  HAIRS  MADE  HAPPY. 

v/PPOSITE  to  the  house,  in  which  Charlotte's  pa- 
rents lived,  was  a  little  opening,  ornamented  with  a 
grass-plot,  and  overshaded  by  a  venerable  tree,  com- 
manding an  extensive  view  before  it.  On  this  delight- 
ful spot,  Charlotte  used  frequently  to  sit  in  her  little 
chair,  while  employed  in  knitting  stockings  for  her 
mamma. 

As  she  was  one  day  thus  employed,  she  saw  a  poor 
old  man  advancing  very  slowly  towards  her.  His  hair 
was  as  white  as  silver,  and  his  back  bent  with  age ;  he 
supported  himself  by  a  stick,  and  seemed  to  walk  with 
great  difficulty.  (  Poor  man,  (said  Charlotte,  looking 
at  him  most  tenderly)  he  seems  to  be  very  much  in 
pain,  and  perhaps  is  very  poor,  which  are  two  dread- 
ful evils  !' 

She  also  saw  a  number  of  boys,  who  were  following 
close  behind  this  poor  old  man.  They  passed  jokes 
upon  his  threadbare  coat,  which  had  very  long  skirts, 

and  short  sleeves,  contrary  to  the  fashion  of  those  days. 

r?   <2 


KM  LOOKING-GLASS. 

His  hat,  which  was  quite  rusty,  did  not  escape  their 
notice ;  his  cheeks  were  hollow  and  his  hotly  thin.  These 
wicked  boys  no  sooner  saw  him,  than  they  all  burst  out 
a  laughing.  A  stone  lay  in  his  way,  which  he  did  not 
perceive,  and  over  it  he  stumbled,  and  had  like  to 
have  fallen.  This  afforded  them  sport,  and  they  laugh- 
ed  loudly  ;  but  is  gave  great  pain  to  the  poor  old  man, 
who  uttered  a  deep  sigh. 

'  I  once  was  as  young  as  you  are,  (said  he  to  the 
boys)  but  I  did  not  laugh  at  the  infirmities  of  ^ge  as 
you  do.  The  day  will  come  in  which  you  will  be  old 
yourselves,  and  every  day  is  bringing  you  forward  to 
that  period.  You  will  then  be  sensible  of  the  impro- 
priety of  your  present  conduct.'  Having  thus  spoken, 
he  endeavored  to  hobble  on  again,  and  made  a  second 
stumble,  when,  in  struggling  to  save  himself  from  fal- 
ling, he  dropped  his  cane,  and  down  he  fell.  On  this 
the  wicked  boys  renewed  their  laugh,  and  highly  en- 
joyed his  misfortune. 

Charlotte,  who  had  seen  every  thing  that  had  passed, 
could  not  help  pitying  the  old  man's  situation,  and 
therefore  putting  down  her  stocking  on  the  chair,  ran 
towards  him,  picked  up  the  cane  and  gave  it  him,  and 
then  taking  hold  of  his  other  arm,  as  if  she  had  been 
as  strong  as  a  woman,  advised  him  to  lean  upon  her, 
and  nut  mind  any  thing  the  boys  might  say  to  him. 

The  poor  old  man  looking  at  her  very  earnestly, 
•  Sweet  child,  (said  he)  how  good  you  are  !  This  kind- 
ness makes  me  in  a  moment  forget  all  the  ill  behavior 
of  those  naughty  boys.  May  you  ever  be  happy.'  They 
then  walked  on  together  ;  but  the  boys  being  probably- 
made  ashamed  of  their  conduct  by  the  behavior  of  Char- 
lotte, followed  the  old  man  no  further. 


LOOKING-GLASS.  19.9 

While  the  boys  were  turning  about,  one  of  them  fell 
down  also,  and  all  the  rest  began  laughing,  as  they  had 
before  done  at  the  old  man.  He  was  very  angry  with 
them  on  that  account,  and  as  soon  as  he  got  up,  ran  af- 
ter his  companions,  pelting  them  with  stones.  He  in- 
stantly became  convinced,  how  unjust  it  was  to  laugh 
at  the  distresses  of  another,  and  formed  a  resolution, 
for  the  future,  never  to  laugh  at  any  person's  pain.  He 
followed  the  old  man  he  had  been  laughing  at,  though 
at  some  distance,  wishing  for  an  opportunity  to  do  hirn 
some  favor,  by  way  of  atonement,  for  what  he  had 
done. 

The  good  old  man,  in  the  mean  time,  by  the  kind 
assistance  of  Charlotte,  proceeded  with  slow  but  sure 
steps.  She  asked  him  to  stop  and  rest  himself  a  little, 
and  told  him,  that  her  house  was  that  before  him.  '  Pray 
stay,  (said  she)  and  sit  a  little  under  that  large  tree.  My 
parents,  indeed,  are  not  at  home,  and  therefore  you  will 
not  be  so  well  treated  ;  yet  it  will  be  a  little  rest  to  you.* 

The  old  man  accepted  Charlotte's  offer.  She  brought 
him  out  a  chair,  and  then  fetched  some  bread  and  cheese 
and  good  small  beer,  which  was  all  the  pretty  maid 
could  get  at.  He  thanked  her  very  kindly,  and  then 
entered  into  conversation  with  her. 

4  I  find,  my  dear,  (said  he)  you  have  parents.  I 
doubt  not  but  you  love  them,  and  they  love  you.  They 
must  be  very  happy,  and  may  they  always  continue 
to  be  so  !' 

'  And  pray,  good  old  man,  (said  Charlotte)  I  sup- 
pose you  have  got  children.' — '  I  have  a  son  (replied 
he)  who  lived  in  London,  loved  me  tenderly,  and  fre- 
quently came  to  see  me  ;  but,  alas  !  he  is  now  dead, 
and  I  am  kit  disconsolate.    His  widow,  indeed,  is 


J  J  GLASS. 

rich  :  bul  she  assumes  the  character  of  the  lady,  arid 
thinks  it  beneath  her  to  enquire  whether  I  be  dead  or 
living,  as  she  does  not  wish  it  to  be  known,  that  her 
husband's  father  is  a  peasant.' 

Charlotte  was  much  affected,  and  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that  such  cruel  people  I.  i  Ah  !  certain  I 
am,  (said  she)  that  my  dear  mother  would  not  behave 
so  cruelly.'  He  then  rose  ,  -;  ed  Charlotte  with 
a  blessing  ;  but  she  was  dett  rmined  not  to  leave  him, 
till  she  had  accompanied  him  a  little  way  further. 

As  they  walked  on,  they  saw  the  little  boy  who  had 
been  following  them  ;  for  he  run  on  some  way  before, 
and  was  then  sitting  on  the  grass.  When  they  looked 
upon  him  he  cast  his  eye  downwards,  got  up  after 
they  had  passed,  and  followed  them  again.  Charlotte 
observed  him  but  said  nothing. 

She  asked  the  old  man  if  In*  lived  alone.  '  No  lit- 
tle lady,  (answered  he)  I  have  a  cot  cage  on  the  other 
side  of  that  meadow,  seated  in  the  middle  of  a  little 
garden,  with  an  orchard  and  a  small  field.  An  old 
neighbor,  whose  cottage  fell  down  through  age,  lives 
with  me,  and  cultivates  \ny  ground.  lie  is  an  honest 
man,  and  I  am  perfectly  easy  in  his  society  ;  but  the 
loss  of  my  son  still  bears  hard  upon  me,  nor  have  I  the 
happiness  to  see  any  of  his  children,  who  must  by  this 
time  have  forgotten  inc.' 

These  complaints  touched  the  heart  of  Charlotte, 
who  told  him,  that  she  and  her  mother  would  come 
and  see  him.  The  sensibility  and  kindness  of  this  lit- 
tle girl,  served  only  to  aggravate  his  grief,  by  bring- 
ing to  his  mind  the  loss  he  had  sustained  in  his  son. 
Tears  came  in  his  eyes,  when  he  pulled  out  his  hand- 
kerchief to  wipe  them  ?  and,  instead  of  again  putting 


LOOKING-GLASS.  201 

it  into  his  pocket,  in  the  agitation  of  his  mind,  it  slip- 
ped aside,  and  fell  unnoticed  by  him  or  Charlotte. 

The  little  boy  who  followed  them,  saw  the  handker- 
chief fall,  ran  to  pick  it  up,  and  gave  it  the  old  man, 
saying,  <  Here,  good  old  man,  you  dropped  your 
handkerchief,  and  here  it  is.' *  Thank  you  hearti- 
ly, my  little  friend,  (said  the  old  man).  Here  is  a 
good-natured  lad,  who  does  not  ridicule  old  age,  nor 
laugh  at  the  afflictions  that  attend  it.  You  will  cer- 
tainly become  an  honest  man.  Come  both  of  you  to 
my  habitation,  and  I  will  give  you  some  milk.'  They 
had  no  sooner  reached  the  old  man's  cottage  than  he 
brought  out  some  milk,  and  the  best  bread  he  had, 
which,  though  coarse,  was  good.  They  all  sat  down 
upon  the  grass,  and  made  a  comfortable  repast.  How- 
ever, Charlotte  began  to  be  afraid  her  parents  might 
come  home,  and  be  uneasy  at  her  absence  ;  and  the 
little  boy  was  sorry  to  go,  but  was  sadly  afraid,  should 
he  stay,  of  being  scolded  by  his  mother. 

c  This  mother  of  your's,  (said  the  old  man)  must  be 
very  cross  to  scold  you.' — ;  She  is  not  always  so,  (re- 
plied the  boy)  but  though  she  lovtfS  me,  she  makes 
me  fear  her.' — And  your  father  ?'  '  Oh,  I  scarcely 
knew  him,  he  having  been  dead  these  four  years.' — 
'  Dead  these  four  years  !  (interrupted  the  old  man,  and 
fixing  his  eyes  attentively  on  the  boy).  Is  it  possible 
that  I  have  some  recollection  of  your  features  ?  Can  it 
be  little  Francis  !'  Yes,  yes,  Francis  is  my  name.' 

For  a  few  moments  the  old  man  stood  motionless, 
and  with  an  altered  voice,  his  eyes  swimming  with 
tears,  cried  out,  *  My  dear  Francis,  you  do  not  recol- 
lect your  grandfather  !  Embrace  me  !  You  have  got 
the  very  features  of  my  son  !  My  dearest  child,  you 


LOOKIN'G-GLASS. 

was  not  thinking  of  me  !  My  son  affectionately  loved 
me,  and  his  son  will  love  me  also.  My  old  age  will 
not  be  so  miserable  as  I  expected,  and  the  evening  of 
my  life  will  not  pass  away  without  some  joy.     I  shall 

depart  in  peace  ! Bat  I  forgot,  that  by  detaining 

you,  I  may  expose  you  to  your  mother's  anger.  Go, 
my  dear  child,  for  I  do  not  wish  that  my  joy  should 
cost  yon  tears.  Go,  love  your  mother,  and  obey  her 
commands,  even  though  you  should  not  come  and  see 
me.  Come  and  see  me  if  you  can  ;  but  do  not  disobey 
or  tell  a  story  on  any  account.' 

He  then  turned  to  Charlotte,  and  said,  though  he 
then  did  not  wish  her  to  stay,  for  fear  of  offending  her 
parents,  yet  he  hoped  she  would  come  again.  He  then 
dismissed  them,  giving  them  a  hearty  blessing,  and 
the  two  children  walked  away  hand  in  hand.  Char- 
lotte got.  home  safe  before  her  parents,  who  were  not 
long  after  her,  when  she  told  them  every  thing  that 
had  passed,  which  furnished  an  agreeable  conversa- 
tion for  the  evening.. 

The  next  day,  they  all  went  to  sec  the  good  old 
man,  and  afterwards  frequently  repeated  their  visits. 
Francis  also  came  to  see  his  grandfather,  who  was-  re- 
joiced to  hear  him  speak,  and  to  receive  his  affection- 
ate caresses.  Francis,  on  his  side,  was  equally  rejoic- 
ed, excepting  when  he  did  not  meet  with  Charlotte  ; 
for  then  he  went  home  sorrowful  and  sad. 

The  nearer  Francis  arrived  to  manhood,  the  more 
his  affections  for  Charlotte  encreased  ;  and  according- 
ly, when  he  was  old  enough  to  marry,  he  would  think 
of  no  other  woman,  though  she  was  not  rich.  The  old 
man  lived  to  see  them  married  and  happy,  and  then 
finally  closed  his  eyes  in  peace, 


LOOKING-GLASS. 


203 


'■••••TO  bless  is  to  be  blest ! 
We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way; 
(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-grey) 
(Sooth/d  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt, 
And  on  his  tale  with  more  attention  dwelt* 
As  in  his  scrip  we  droop'd  our  little  store, 
And  wept  to  think  that  little  was  no  more, 
He  breath'd  his  pray'r,  '  Long  may  such  goodness  live  ! 
Twas  all  he  gave,  'twas  all  he  had  to  give. 


END  OF  LOOKING-GLASS. 


&k 


M 


